


Eight Days a Week

by sifuhotman



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Miya Atsumu-centric, Pining, tbh this fic is just gay keyboard smashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifuhotman/pseuds/sifuhotman
Summary: Miya Atsumu impulsively asks out Sakusa Kiyoomi, who notoriously dates the first girl to ask him out on a Monday for seven days and seven days only. Atsumu does it as a joke, but is surprised when Sakusa actually accepts—and even more surprised when Atsumu realizes he doesn’t want it to end.[ University AU inspired bySeven Daysmanga ]
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 177
Kudos: 865
Collections: ~SakuAtsu~





	1. monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic idea plopped into my head while I was writing [fake it till you make it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27559612/chapters/67408249), my monster of a SakuAtsu fake dating fic. Because apparently one pseudo-fake-dating fic wasn't enough. Fml.

In hindsight, Miya Atsumu should have known, deep down, that something like this would happen. It was inevitable, for a few reasons. Namely, because he’s an impulsive blabbermouth. Also, he has a thing for tall guys, guys who are even taller than him, with pretty faces, and guys who play hard-to-get rather than immediately caving in and going along with his usual antics. But mostly because the first time Atsumu heard about the infamous Sakusa Kiyoomi, he kind of knew that he’d pull some stupid shit like this.

Atsumu takes the bus everyday to Chiyoda University, where he’s a second-year. The bus stop is a ten minute walk from his apartment in the shitty complex overrun by obnoxious college students, and the bus runs on schedule, pulling up once every half an hour. It is punctual every day, somehow even with the ridiculous Tokyo traffic. Atsumu hops on the bus that falls precisely three minutes before the hour in order to grab breakfast and beverage at the coffee shop on campus.

This morning, however, Atsumu is running late. Key word:  _ running _ .

“Hold the bus!”

It’s stupid, honestly—he’d been up late chatting with Suna, his high school friend. They’d been too busy gossiping about whether or not Kita—their senpai—was secretly engaged, which led to an absurd pitch-session for possible themes of the bachelor party. This went on for so long that before Atsumu knew it, it was three in the morning, and he had four hours to sleep in order to have ample time to make his 7:57am bus.

So, really, it’s his fault.

“Wait!”

Atsumu waves his hand in the air, but the last person boards and the bus begins to pull away from the curb before the doors are even completely shut. He swears he can see the bus driver throw him a smirk through the tinted windows, but maybe he’s just projecting.

He groans and rubs some of the sleep out of his eyes. He barely had time to brush his teeth, splash cold water on his face, and tug on a pair of jeans before snagging his backpack to bolt out the door. His stomach growls in protest and his brain is on the verge of a headache from sleep deprivation. The worst part of all this is that Atsumu has no one to blame but himself.

Typical.

Atsumu pulls out his phone to send text.

> **To** : Miya Osamu
> 
> fml
> 
> i missed the bus
> 
> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> dipshit

Right as Atsumu contemplates either texting back a middle finger emoji or hurling his phone across the street, his phone buzzes again.

> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> i’ll have a coffee and croissant ready for u
> 
> so u can grab n go to ur 9am
> 
> dumb bitch 

Atsumu bites back a half-smile-half snarl. His twin brother gets on his fucking nerves more often than not, but he shows that he cares, in his own way. Atsumu is just too grouchy to form any coherent expression of gratitude, so rather than saying something that might drive Osamu to spit in his coffee (light on the ice, two pumps of vanilla, soy milk), Atsumu pockets his phone, sits on the bench by the bus stop, and holds his head in his hands.

What a great way to start the week.

The air around him is warm as cars and bicycles speed by. Atsumu should’ve invested in a bike. Osamu suggested it, since he’s always running everywhere anyway. But he didn’t listen. As per usual.

Atsumu takes a break from sulking and dozing off to glance up at a shadow that looms over him, expecting there to be a thick cloud in the sky to shelter him from the springtime sun.

But there isn’t a cloud.

Just a very tall, very stoic boy.

Atsumu recognizes him, of course. As a student at Chiyoda University, it’s hard  _ not _ to know Sakusa Kiyoomi. He’s larger than the pictures Atsumu has seen on campus or passed around the whisper networks of student gossip. Back in their high school days, Sakusa was known for being one of the best volleyball players in Japan. Coincidentally, so was Atsumu.

But what Sakusa is known for now is far different, and although his reputation isn’t necessarily positive, people talk about him with a subdued sense of reverence that Atsumu never earned himself.

Atsumu is known among a small circle of people for his foul mouth and tendency to drink too much at parties. He’s known for having a twin brother who’s arguably a better person than him, and for submitting all his homework assignments past midnight and for being an insanely competitive volleyball player for a stupid recreational league.

Sakusa Kiyoomi’s reputation is a completely different breed: he dates. A lot. He dates one girl, every week—whoever asks him out in person first thing on Monday morning. But come Sunday night, he ends it. The first time, everyone said he was flaky. The second time, everyone said he was cruel. The third time, well…the third time was enough to create a pattern that served more as entertainment and legend than a red flag. How many girls has he dated? For how many weeks? Atsumu has no idea.

Atsumu doesn’t know how or why Sakusa started it. The whole thing sounds so incredibly shallow and meaningless, like a publicity stunt or something. But it’s become sort of a challenge of sorts, a challenge that girls at Chiyoda will triple-dog-dare each other to do and guys will lament they’ll never have enough clout to recreate. 

Atsumu first heard the rumors a couple of months ago, when a friend of a friend of a friend dated Sakusa the first week of the semester.

“No wonder he can’t keep a girl around long enough,” she’d said. “He doesn’t even  _ try _ to be a good boyfriend.”

He wanted to ask more about what kind of guy would do something like that. Is it because Sakusa is so polite that he feels bad turning people down? Is it because he’s so much of a narcissistic asshole that he ends things so quickly? Does he get bored of dating the same person, or is he uninterested in committed relationships?

Either way, Atsumu had told himself that if he ever met Sakusa face-to-face, he wouldn’t like him. It was clear from rumors alone that Sakusa was someone Atsumu would try insanely hard to piss off, should their paths ever cross.

Sakusa doesn’t notice him. Atsumu squints against the sunlight that outlines Sakusa’s profile. He’s staring intently at the street, like he wants to murder one of the pigeons strolling along the curbside. A mask covers the bottom half of his face, pristine white and probably one that’s stolen directly from a hospital, although Atsumu has no idea why Sakusa would need to wear one right now. He has an elegant set of curls that swoop to the left, exposing two moles situated above his right eyebrow. The moles are almost exactly the same size and same shape, perfect little circles, as if hand-painted by God himself.

In contrast, Atsumu feels how puffy his eye bags feel and self-consciously rubs his fingers through his hair, which probably looks like he just stuck his head through a spin cycle. Sakusa looks like a model. Atsumu feels like a stray cat.

Atsumu has no idea what drives him to say: “Oi.”

Sakusa doesn’t acknowledge the sound, but it’s possible that Atsumu’s croaky, dehydrated vocal cords are only capable of emitting sounds that get swallowed by the rush of cars.

Atsumu clears his throat and tries again. “ _ Oi _ .”

Sakusa turns his head minimally towards him, just enough that his inky black eyes can fix himself on Atsumu’s withering form. He is unfazed and unbothered. Atsumu wishes he could look more intimidating, but it’s hard to feel intimidating when he feels like he’s just crawled out of a casket. “Can I help you?”

“Yer Sakusa Kiyoomi, right?”

“Can I help you?” he repeats.

“Yer a little early for the bus today. Or maybe a little late. Not sure. I’m late, though. So I guess that makes me early for the next one.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond, although Atsumu does manage to snag a small reaction: his face scrunches. There’s a flicker of recognition there, which Atsumu assumes has to do with their respective high school volleyball teams playing each other on a national level. Three years ago, at the Interhigh tournament, Sakusa’s team barely came out top and won the entire thing, which stung at the time.

Flushed with sweat and heavy with the fresh memories of his messed up plays, Atsumu had stuck his hand under the net and looked him in the eyes. It was one of those rare instances where it felt like something significant had happened, like the momentum in Atsumu’s being had shifted just from Sakusa’s stupidly solid receiving alone.

He’d picked up Atsumu’s serves like they were nothing.

_ I’ll win next time _ , he’d vowed.

Sakusa didn’t so much as blink, and the hairs on the back of Atsumu’s neck rose from the scrutiny. He expected a sarcastic and snarky quip, one that would piss him off and drive him to practice even more. But he didn’t get any of that—Sakusa merely nodded and walked away.

They haven’t exchanged words since then, although Atsumu will see him around campus sometimes. Sakusa keeps to himself, mostly, aside from the whole dating thing. 

“Miya Atsumu,” he says when Sakusa doesn’t say anything. “Nice to finally meetcha.”

“Inarizaki setter,” Sakusa mumbles, voice muffled by his mask.

Atsumu offers him a languid grin. “You remember me? I’m flattered.” The thought of Sakusa recognizing him warms his stomach with delight. Sakusa doesn’t just remember his high school. He remembers  _ him _ .

“I’ve never seen you at this bus stop before,” and under other circumstances from other people, it might’ve been something like a pick up line. But from Sakusa’s blunt tone, it sounds more like an accusation.

“That’s ‘cuz I usually take the bus that I just missed.”

“I see.”

“Ain’t it too early for ya? Don’tcha got anythin’ better to do than wait around at a bus stop for,” Atsumu checks his phone for the time, “fifteen minutes?”

“I like to be punctual.”

“Oh. Yer one of those  _ ‘early is the new on-time’ _ guys, ain’t ya?”

Sakusa stares at him, flat and unmoving. How the  _ hell _ is this guy so popular with women? He doesn’t look like a charming, charismatic guy that Atsumu had assumed he’d be. Hell, Atsumu would probably make a better playboy than Sakusa, based on first impressions alone. Atsumu can be charming when he wants to be, in his own way.

He looks like he’s about to respond, but apparently thinks better of it, and averts his attention back to staring at the road. What an enigma. 

Sakusa doesn’t make a move to sit on the bench besides Atsumu, but Atsumu has heard Sakusa has a thing against public spaces and dirty surfaces. The minutes tick by and all Atsumu can think about is how he wants to push Sakusa’s buttons. It’s rude, really, to be that good-looking and mistreat girls that way.

So Atsumu, without any preamble, comments, “No girlfriend around today?” 

He thinks he hears a sigh. “No.”

“But it’s Monday. So ya must have someone waitin’ on yer long hit list of flings.”

Sakusa’s eyes narrow dangerously. Atsumu can’t help but feel a thrill of satisfaction at the rising tension radiating from Sakusa’s stiffened body posture. “C’mon, Omi-kun, I slept, like, nuthin’ last night. I needja to share something interesting to keep me awake.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Ain’t it, though? Yer at  _ my _ school. Prolly dated some of  _ my _ friends. So yer business is everyone’s business.”

“It’s not  _ your _ school.” If Atsumu could see Sakusa’s mouth, he’d bet that it’s screwed into a snarl, and Atsumu smirks. It seems that his smirking is the most offensive thing he can do to Sakusa, because he announces, “I’m going to ignore you.”

“Aw, c’mon, Omi-kun.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“How ‘bout Omi Omi? Is that better?”

“No.”

“Omi-kun it is.” Atsumu gives him a wide grin that he  _ knows _ will just piss Sakusa off, and the effect is immediate: Sakusa’s eyebrows crease even harder. “So no confession yet?”

Sakusa glances away. Atsumu doesn’t know if he does it out of discomfort, annoyance, or general disinterest in the conversation. “No.”

“Ah. Does that mean I get to witness yer fangirl crowd in action after we got off the bus?” Atsumu laughs breathily and crosses his arms. He’s never seen it in person before, presumably because he’s too busy scarfing down his breakfast in order to make it to class on time. “What an honor.”

“Shut it.”

“So you’ll really go out with anyone so long as they’re the first one to get yer attention Monday mornin’?” Atsumu asks. For some reason, this bothers him. The idea of dicking around and playing with girls’ feelings doesn’t seem right to him. He’ll pick on his friends and his brothers and taunt people in a volleyball match—even if they’re on the same team—but something that involves vulnerability like a  _ confession _ is a candle that Atsumu will not go near for risk of being burned or doing the burning. “Even if ya know they ain’t yer type?”

Sakusa hefts his backpack over his shoulder. “Types are overrated.”

“Anyone? Even if she had a troll face and no hair and was ten feet tall?”

“For someone who looks like he just rolled out of bed,” Sakusa says, “you talk way too much.”

Atsumu’s grin widens. “So no type, then? Or do ya just ignore that in favor of the one-week arrangements.”

“Will you drop it?” Sakusa says, but it’s lacking that biting tone that Atsumu expected. He refuses to acknowledge Atsumu’s presence with even just a glance in his direction. “I don’t even  _ know _ you.”

And, just like that, a drop falls into Atsumu’s chest: the impulse to take things one step too far, until he looks back and realizes that he’s teetering on the edge of ‘just enough’ and ‘a smidge too far.’ Coupled with his questionable judgement from lack of sleep, Atsumu dives straight for it.

“Well, then, Omi-kun, guess we should change that, huh? If yer willin’ to go out with just anyone who’s first to ask, why don’tcha go out with me?”

Sakusa whips his head so fast that Atsumu flinches, and his eyes are fixed on him like a professional sniper aiming for his next hit. Atsumu raises his eyebrows, a challenge, but on the inside, he feels his heart pumping with a mix of adrenaline and nerves.

Before Sakusa can answer, the bus to Chiyoda University pulls up to the stop and Atsumu scrambles to stand beside the doors as passengers flood out.

Sakusa stands behind him. He doesn’t say anything, and Atsumu doesn’t pay him any attention, but he can feel his gaze boring a hole in the back of his skull.

It reminds him of Kita-senpai, and how he used to pressure him in all sorts of ways while they were on the court together. Except Atsumu doesn’t think Sakusa is trying to pressure him. He thinks he’s trying to obliterate him.

Yeah, so he’s being a bit of an asshole to a complete stranger, but if the stranger is Sakusa Kiyoomi, it’s justified.

The only space available to them is a narrow corner near the front entrance, and Sakusa’s face darkens noticeably when he scans the over-packed bus. Atsumu shuffles out of the way to make room for Sakusa, face warming a bit when Sakusa presses himself against the window beside him. His elbow brushes against Atsumu’s ever so slightly.

They don’t exchange words the entire bus ride. Atsumu’s brain drifts off into its craving for sleep, and Sakusa is scrolling through a news article on his phone. If Atsumu weren’t so delirious from poor self-maintenance, he might try and sneak a peek at it, but instead, he leans the back of his head against the window and closes his eyes.

When the bus arrives at their stop twenty minutes later, Atsumu gets off and rolls out his neck. He has thirteen minutes to grab his breakfast and bolt to class. Chiyoda, despite being in the heart of Tokyo, has a fairly condensed campus, so Atsumu can totally make it, especially if he cuts through the back of one of the dining halls. Hopefully he won’t eat shit by stumbling over his own feet, which is very likely given his current physical condition.

“Miya.”

Sakusa’s drawl grabs his attention, and he freezes in his tracks. He notices a small crowd of girls whispering and pointing at Sakusa, who stands uncomfortably at the entrance of the university.

“Can I help you?”

Sakusa sticks his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He holds it out to Atsumu expectedly.

Atsumu stares at it.

_ Wait a second _ .

He clears his throat and throws on the most obnoxious smile he can offer. The running gag slides easily off his tongue. “So you’ll pick me up after classes today? That it?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes as Atsumu gingerly takes Sakusa’s phone and types in his number, heart pounding with every keyboard stroke.

“My classes end at three,” Atsumu says breezily.

Sakusa types away, and moments later, Atsumu’s phone buzzes.

> **From** : Unknown
> 
> Sakusa Kiyoomi

“See you later,” Sakusa says without even sparing a second look at him, and Atsumu stares, dumbfounded and stunned. Perhaps he’s a bit slow this morning, but something about what’s just transpired has got him on edge. Not only has he interacted with Sakusa, but he also has his number. What a strange turn of events, all because he woke up late for his 7:57am bus.

Sakusa’s back retreats, and he walks past the crowd of girls. One of them steps forward, but Sakusa appears to dismiss her with the raise of the hand and a quick nod. The girls look disappointed, but not too disappointed, since his cycle will just repeat itself all over again. Monday to Sunday. Sunday to Monday.

Atsumu glances down at his phone, where the text message that seals his fate for the next week stares back at him. His fingers tighten around it as he blinks before forcibly shaking himself out of it to run over to MSBY Coffee for his usual breakfast. 

Sakusa hadn’t said  _ Goodbye _ or  _ Fuck off _ or  _ Go to hell  _ or  _ Never speak to me again _ .

He hadn’t said  _ No _ , either.

Sakusa had said  _ See you later. _

Atsumu doesn’t have time to think about this. He has class.

And besides, there’s no way Sakusa is taking this seriously. He’s playing along with the joke.

Right?


	2. tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten minutes into their lame pseudo-first-date and Atsumu’s already made Sakusa smile—almost.
> 
> This is an improvement.

a.m.

* * *

Atsumu ends up bailing on Sakusa on Monday afternoon, because Osamu had texted him asking to fill in for a shift at MSBY Coffee when one of his coworkers couldn’t make it. Although Atsumu had planned on quitting last semester to focus on his studies, the student manager, Kuroo, had somehow managed to convince him to pick up ad hoc shifts when needed and, more often than not, Atsumu had enough free time to accommodate a few hours every so often.

In all honesty, Atsumu sort of forgot about the thing with Sakusa. MSBY Coffee was overrun by the swarms of students asking for customized lattes and complaining about how the toaster oven wasn’t hot enough to make bagels crispy. He collapsed in bed once he got home, jeans and hoodie still on and the smell of roasted coffee beans clinging to his hair, and wakes up at seven the next day from the sun peeking through his blinds.

 _Shit_. He’d slept longer than he meant to. Almost eleven hours. But the fatigue in his bones is from heavy sleep, not lack thereof, so Atsumu already feels about ten times more optimistic about today than he felt yesterday.

More surprising is the first notification he sees, sent not too long ago.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Good morning, Miya.

Atsumu stares at it. Is this what couples do? Do they text each other in the mornings? Is Sakusa even his boyfriend right now? He’s certainly never texted someone at 6:44 in the morning, let alone text a significant other. The only message they’d exchanged yesterday was when Sakusa had texted him asking if Atsumu was, in fact, going to catch the bus after three, and Atsumu had said no. He never expected Sakusa to contact him ever again, especially after the clear distaste Sakusa failed to hide.

Atsumu rolls over in bed and stretches out his arms as he considers his response. He wants a better idea about what Sakusa’s thinking, whether he’s trying to get under Atsumu’s skin the same way Atsumu’s trying to get under his. That’s certainly a possibility. That first text is about as dry and humorless as Sakusa’s attitude throughout their entire interaction yesterday.

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> good morning omi-kun
> 
> will i see u at the bus stop today ???

If Sakusa is bothered by the nickname, he doesn’t express it.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> No, I’m on campus already.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> EH?
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> I have a paper due at nine. I woke up early to finish it.

Okay. Sakusa Kiyoomi is committed to school. He’s committed to handing in work on time, which is far more than Atsumu is willing to do. Poor guy must’ve woken up before the sun rose. Atsumu can respect that, but he knows he’ll never have the self-discipline to wake up early to make a deadline. There’s a reason why Atsumu eats at odd hours, and that can largely be attributed to his awful sleep schedule.

Speaking of food—Atsumu hadn’t eaten dinner last night. Osamu had passed along some extra granola bars in his bag and Kuroo had offered him a protein shake. He thinks this might be an appropriate place to start, since they were doing that dating-but-not dating thing.

Not to mention Atsum would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little curious about Sakusa. He wants to know what kind of person he is, how he become a walking legend on Chiyoda’s campus. Even if Atsumu doesn’t like the guy, he can still want to know things he obviously isn’t privy to. But _if_ they’re dating—or whatever it is—then he might as well attempt to dig up details that no one else knows.

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> ur literally insane
> 
> meet me at msby at 8:20! i’ll treat ya :)

Because there’s nothing better than being able to show off to his brother about his new acquaintance.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Okay.

Before Atsumu can second guess things again—as he is prone to—he tosses his phone on his bed, pushes himself up, and gets ready for the day.

And his date.

Or whatever.

* * *

When Atsumu first walks into MSBY Coffee, he almost wants to fling himself out the window and never enter the building again. That’s what happens the day after he endures a particularly brutal shift. The space and the smell is enough to gather sweat on Atsumu’s palms. Luckily, it’s not too busy today, just a few stragglers from all-nighters looking for a caffeine fix or early risers looking to start the day.

The second thought that crosses his mind is Sakusa Kiyoomi standing, backpack on his shoulders, mask on, and hands shoved deep in his pocket—and he’s staring.

Not at Atsumu. No, definitely not at Atsumu.

Sakusa’s eyes are fixed on the person behind the coffee bar fixing together three foamed cappuccinos simultaneously.

Osamu.

“Oi, Samu!” Atsumu calls out over the screech emitted by the steamer, because catching Sakusa’s attention by being obnoxious seems easier than going directly up to him. Sakusa flinches and whips his head in Atsumu’s direction, and the hairs on Atsumu’s neck stand up. Osamu doesn’t even glance up when he flips Atsumu off, a fairly common occurrence. Osamu’s cap is pulled snug across his big head, which is likely what throws Sakusa off—sometimes when both Miya twins work a shift in the same black uniforms and black hats, no one can tell the other apart.

He drops his bag in an empty chair and saunters over to where Osamu works.

Behind Osamu, Hinata Shoyo—bright and bubbly despite the early time and dark circles under students’ eyes—laughs and greets him.

“Good morning, Miya-senpai! Glad you made it on time!”

“‘Course. I knocked right out as soon as I got home yesterday.” Atsumu glares pointedly at Osamu. “Ya should’ve called in more people. Or taken the shift yerself.”

“I had study group, idiot.” Osamu glances up just long enough to give Atsumu the stink eye.

“Yer the idiot, idiot.”

“I don’t have time for ya.” Osamu turns away as he pours the foamed milk into the paper cups. “Go bother someone else who’s willin’ to put up with yer bullshit.”

Speaking of which—Sakusa hasn’t approached him, so Atsumu figures it’s appropriate for him to make the first move. He turns and offers a wide smile at Sakusa, doing his best to channel his inner Hinata as he calls, “G’mornin’, Omi-kun!”

This not only gets Sakusa’s attention, but also earns him a side-eye glance from Osamu. Atsumu ignores it, knowing there are more questions than answers right now, so it’s better to just get around to it later. “Didja finish yer paper?”

Sakusa nods warily. Today he wears a chunky tan cardigan that looks more like something Atsumu’s grandma would wear. He doesn’t know if it pisses him off more that Sakusa has the guts to wear something like that, or that Sakusa actually looks _good_ in it. “Yes. I just need to turn it in now.”

“Nice. Lemme getcha somethin’ good here. Have ya had coffee here before?”

Sakusa shakes his head. “No, I usually drink coffee at home.”

“It’s my treat. Ya take yer coffee black? Sweet? Cream?”

Sakusa shifts and slides at the table where Atsumu has left his belongings. “Just black coffee is fine.”

“Got it. I’ll join ya. Be right back.”

Although Sakusa looks disinterested in the attention his presence draws from people surrounding them, Atsumu definitely can't ignore it. It isn’t much, it’s enough to be noticeable. Atsumu swallows and wonders if this is the kind of thing that people might start rumors about, that they’re supposedly dating.

“What in the hell are ya doin’ with Sakusa Kiyoomi?” Osamu hisses as Atsumu walks past. Atsumu ignores him and flips him off from over the shoulder without so much as a glance in his direction. Serves him right.

“Hey, Shoyo-kun.” Atsumu reaches for his wallet. “Can ya get me a medium Americano and my usual? And two of those ube muffins.”

“Sure!” Hinata glances at Sakusa. Atsumu is sure that Hinata isn’t completely ignorant, either. “Are you paying for both?”

“Just the—”

“Charge him double,” Osamu interrupts.

“Fuck off, Samu.”

“Every time he insults me, tack on an extra dollar.”

“Shouldn’t ya be givin’ me the friends ’n family discount?!”

“Yer not my friend and if I had it my way, ya wouldn’t be my family.”

“Jerk.”

Osamu sticks his tongue out at him and Hinata laughs, immune to their bickering. Atsumu slides a few crumpled bills across the counter. Hinata hands him the change and moves to pull out two perfectly dark brown muffins that are Atsumu’s personal favorite. “What’re you doing with Sakusa Kiyoomi-san?” he whispers.

“I’ll tell ya another time when Samu’s not around to bein’ like an ass.”

“I didn’t know you were friends with him.” Hinata glances in Sakusa’s direction, non-too discreetly. His large brown eyes study Sakusa with the intensity of a baby experiencing something new for the first time. “I’ve never even seen him here before.”

“Me neither.” Atsumu considers telling them about yesterday’s run-in—and really, it’s a miracle he hasn’t yet, but he doesn’t want to speak too soon and wind up looking like an idiot. It happens far too often, and if he’s not careful, he could colossally fuck something up.

When Osamu places the drinks on the coffee bar, he pointedly looks at his twin brother. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to—he gets his point across. _We’re talking about this later_.

“Thanks fer the drinks, loser.”

“Thanks fer nothin’, jerk.”

Atsumu returns back to the table, where Sakusa continues to sit uncomfortably. His shoulders are slightly hunched and his eyes watch intently as Atsumu sets down the cup of coffee in front of him.

“I love the ube muffins,” he comments. “Ya-chan makes ‘em the best.”

“Thank you,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu can’t tell if he really means it or not. He reaches forward and picks up the coffee, taking a sniff before nodding towards the coffee bar. “I thought that was you, but something seemed different. Guess it’s not.”

Atsumu’s heart stutters. One of the sucky things about having a twin is this sense of losing ownership over oneself. Like he’s always stuck in a matched set, destined to be confused for the other. It doesn’t help that their language quirks and thoughts spill into one another. “Really? You can already tell who’s who? I’m impressed, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa shrugs. “Your brother looks identical to you, but something about his voice is different. He’s not as rude.”

Atsumu frowns. “‘Scuse me?”

“It threw me off at first.”

Atsumu opens his mouth to say a quip, but disaster strikes when Sakusa reaches up and pulls off his mask, folding it neatly before pulling a ziplock bag from his pocket. He places the mask carefully in the bag and zips it tight, running his fingers across the top of it several times. It’s almost endearing.

It’s also the first time Atsumu sees him in person without his mask on, and it does not disappoint.

Sakusa is _gorgeous_. Which is—duh, he already knew that. If Sakusa Kiyoomi only possessed the top half of his face, he’d still be considered one of the most attractive people at Chiyoda, and probably all of Tokyo, maybe even in all of Japan. But that mask really, _really_ doesn’t do him any justice. Because up close, Atsumu can really see the gentle slope of his nose and how it points up ever so slightly at the tip. His bottom lip is slightly fuller than the curve of his upper lip, giving Sakusa his signature pouty resting bitch face, and his cheekbones seem to pop even more in contrast to the sharp angles of his jaw and the sturdy dip of his chin. And his _skin_ , God, his skin looks so incredibly soft that Atsumu has to stop himself from reaching forward to touch it right in the middle of the coffee shop.

Atsumu doesn’t consider himself a soft guy at all, but the delicate nature of Sakusa’s features tempts him to become one. He hadn’t seen Sakusa’s whole face yesterday (though he’ll fully admit that he looked up pictures of him during his lectures to keep himself awake). If he had, his already struggling brain might’ve stopped functioning then and there. Even now, after nearly half a day’s worth of sleep, Atsumu’s brain comes to a screeching halt as he stares, dumbfounded, once again, by Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“Stop staring.” Sakusa blows on his coffee.

Atsumu makes a half-assed attempted to shake himself out of his stupidity. “I can’t go on admirin’ my boyfriend?” It’s equal parts challenge and question to him, to see if Sakusa’s for real about all this, or if he’s just messing around with Atsumu. He makes sure he doesn’t talk too loud, because he knows Osamu’s dying to eavesdrop.

“It’s rude.”

“Aw, yer embarrassed, ain’t ya?”

Sakusa merely rolls his eyes and sips slowly, pausing to pick up a plastic fork and methodically pick apart the ube muffin into bite-sized pieces. “So your brother works here and you heckle him every time you come in?”

“Pfft. Please.” Atsumu leans back in his seat and sips at his coffee. He thinks he catches Sakusa throw a glare at him as he reaches for the muffin with his hands, but he doesn’t really care. “I work here too, y’know. Whenever they need someone fillin’ in—college students are flaky so I do what I can to be a good backup.”

“I see.”

“Don’t tell me ya really haven’t ever been here before.”

Sakusa shakes his head, curls bouncing side to side. “No, I haven’t.”

Atsumu leans forward on his elbows. Okay, so Sakusa hadn’t called him out on using the word ‘boyfriend’, so he supposes that’s as close to a confirmation as he’s gonna get. In the unusual spin of events, Atsumu is struck by the thought that he doesn’t actually know much about how to date—his only experience has consisted of weekend hookups or friends-with-benefits, as common in most lives of busy university students—and, judging by Sakusa’s lack of action, he doesn’t really seem to know how to, either, despite his reputation.

This should be an encouraging thought, but Atsumu finds himself getting annoyed again. The sheer audacity of toying around with feelings only to continue to be oblivious as to what to _do_ with them. “What do ya like to do for fun, Omi-kun?”

“Is this you trying to get to know me?”

“Am I not bein’ obvious enough?”

“No, you’re plenty obvious.” Sakusa’s flat gaze makes Atsumu’s skin crawl. “I wasn’t aware that you were able to make small talk, Miya.”

“Fine. Let’s skip the small talk. Do ya like men?”

The words slip off Atsumu’s tongue before he can stop them, and he nearly snorts out loud once he sees Sakusa’s cup freeze midway to his mouth. Sakusa eyes Atsumu with a withering expression, as if they’d known each other for years and not just twenty-four hours—the kind of unabashed disdain that Atsumu has to admit he gets a thrill out of. “And you’re asking me this because…”

“I dunno. I’m just checkin’. ‘Course there’s nothing wrong if ya do. Don’t care either way. I just hear ya get around mostly with women, ’s all. So I was a little surprised at….y’know.” Atsumu gestures vaguely in the air with his hand, and Sakusa squints, like there’s fine print. “This.” He holds his breath, unsure if he should push the issue further.

Sakusa clears his throat and regains his composure with another slow sip of coffee. “I’m rather ambivalent.”

“About men?”

“About dating.”

“Oh.” Atsumu nods, as if he even knows what _ambivalent_ means. “Yer at least open to dating men, then?”

“I don’t know.” Sakusa glances away, and Atsumu begins to keep a mental log of every time he does that—he wants to know what it means, and he wants to be able to leverage that in understanding what Sakusa’s thinking. So far, all Atsumu can conjecture is that Sakusa doesn’t want to be here. “I haven’t dated a man before.”

“Gotcha.”

“Have _you?_ ”

Atsumu barks a laugh, feeling a slight twist of embarrassment when he says, “Nah, Omi-kun. I haven’t really dated at all before, actually.”

It’s not like Atsumu _wants_ to even date around, so he shouldn’t feel embarrassed. He had several chances in high school and several more in college, but Atsumu doesn’t think he’s the kind of person to commit. Monogamous relationships are certainly out of the question, and casual dates are the most Atsumu can handle—but he hasn’t gone on enough with one person to have it be called _dating_.

“Do _you_ like men? _”_

Atsumu gives Sakusa a smug grin. “Wouldn’t ya like to know?”

This earns him a deep inhale, and Atsumu’s grin splits even further. God, it’s _so_ easy to piss him off, even easier than it is to annoy Osamu. Unlike his twin, however—and the primary person Atsumu needles in his life—Sakusa doesn’t lash out. He merely answers with the iron-cold gaze of his, the fingers curling into tight fists.

“’M just kiddin’. No need to get all sour.” Atsumu leans back in his chair, resting the back of his neck against the wooden chair. He clasps his fingers over his stomach and raises an eyebrow at the grumpy boy across the table from him. “I do, Omi-kun. I like men.”

Though that _like_ was little more than sneaking away during frat parties and hooking up in cramped closets together.

“If that’s a problem for ya, then we can go ahead and—”

“That’s not a problem,” Sakusa responds quickly. It’s rushed, and there’s a small glint of surprise that shines in Sakusa’s otherwise pitch black eyes. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

Atsumu’s lips quirk up again, and with that conversation out of the way, he allows himself to ask Sakusa once more, “So what do ya do for fun, Omi-kun?” he glances at the giant clock on the wall, a janky analog clock that Kuroo changes the battery out of about once a week. “Present yer first impression to me.”

“Wasn’t my first impression yesterday?”

“Are ya ever _not_ a smart ass?” Atsumu says, and for the first time since he’s met Sakusa, he sees the corner of his lips twitch slightly in the upwards direction.

 _A smile_. Ten minutes into their lame pseudo-first-date and Atsumu’s already made Sakusa smile—almost.

This is an improvement.

“I like running,” Sakusa says. “I run quite a bit.”

“That’s it? Ya just like runnin’ and studyin’?”

“I don’t know. I read books.”

Atsumu lets out a snow that he hopes isn’t too derisive, and he stirs his drink around with the straw. Osamu definitely slipped in something that has a lavender aroma to it, much to Atsumu’s annoyance, but what annoys him even more is that the fragrance tastes good. “Nerd.”

“It’s actually quite soothing.” Sakusa shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as if he’s searching for some sort of mental footing to continue on this conversation without running out the door. Getting him to talk about casual things is like pulling teeth, and Atsumu wonders if it’s all just an act, or if Sakusa really _is_ that socially awkward.

“Anythin’ else?”

Sakusa hesitates, only just a little, and Atsumu wants to push on it, to ease open Sakusa bit by bit. It’s a game of sorts, or maybe it’s more like a puzzle, and Atsumu’s still fumbling around to grasp the pieces. So far it’s garbled, and Sakusa is less like a painting and more like a half-finished mosaic. Before Atsumu can press him further, Sakusa shakes his head. “Not really.”

“Hm. That’s interestin’. I expected more from ya. No offense.” Atsumu takes another generous bite fo his muffin, chews, and swallows before opening his mouth to elaborate. “Y’know, yer a walkin’ urban legend. You have been, since high school, with yer freaky serves and spikes and receives.” Atsumu recalls, bright as day, the thick levels of frustration that he’d felt as his high school got mercilessly thrashed by Sakusa’s. “No more volleyball for ya, then? That’s a surprise.”

At the mention of _volleyball_ , Sakusa stiffens.

It’s almost imperceptible, how his shoulders tighten and a muscle in his jaw twitches.

Atsumu notices. He’s not often the noticing type—or maybe he is, and he deliberately ignores it.

But Atsumu doesn’t deliberately ignore it, not this time. Sakusa’s discomfort is so palpable that as he shoots a panicked glance over at his brother, Osamu merely frowns and shakes his head. _What’d you do to piss him off, ya jackass?_

Sometimes having twin brother telepathy is not fun.

“I don’t play anymore,” Sakusa finally responds, and the ring of finality to his comment slams the door shut on any further prying Atsumu wants to take a stab at. He gets it, on some level—as much as he loves being in the recreational league, sometimes it’s a sensitive topic for him, too. Atsumu had been ranked as the best setter in high school volleyball, but he left it behind when he went to university.

It was the smart thing to do, anyway. The monsters he’d played with in high school were all surprised when Osamu had made the decision to leave volleyball, and Atsumu wasn’t super interested in playing if his brother wasn’t there to share the glory with him. So Atsumu had walked away, too, and the Miya twins terrorizing the volleyball scene ceased to exist.

Not completely, though. “If ya ever wanna try playin’ with me ’n my friends,” Atsumu offers, “we play in the rec league. Games every Thursday night, then we drink beer and eat pizza together.”

Sakusa gives him a pointed stare. “I’d hardly call that a nutritious and appropriate post-workout meal.”

“Yeah, but it’s tradition and we always get a couple dozen chicken nuggets to go with it. Don’t tell me ya don’t like chicken nuggets, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa finishes off the rest of his muffin with a sour expression on his face, although it’s hard to tell if he’s frowning from the mention off chicken nuggets or by the nickname.

“That’s all I do, by the way,” Atsumu offers. “I work here once in a while and play volleyball every week. Play a lot of Smash with my friends, but that’s pretty much it.”

Atsumu is no urban legend, not like Sakusa. Atsumu is a normal guy, and as much as his high school self might have believed otherwise, Atsumu knows it’s true. There’s nothing special about him, nothing that catches people’s attention, nothing that warrants the same kind of reputation that Sakusa has, demanding eyes everywhere he goes. For the longest time, Atsumu wanted to be like that, but he’s realized now, after two humble decades on the earth, he isn’t jack shit. He’s a guy who sleeps too little and shouts too much and is halfway decent at volleyball, that’s all.

Judging by the unimpressed look on Sakusa’s face, he knows it, too. It’s incredible, really, how much Sakusa can convey in such small facial movements. Similar to his sighs, Atsumu wants to map it out and chart it on a giant board. _How to read Sakusa Kiyoomi_. It’s like a challenge.

“Wadaya usually do for yer dates?” Atsumu attempts to steer the conversation to a more serious topic, albeit with a lighthearted tone. He doesn’t know exactly _what_ he wants to achieve, exactly, but he figures it’s common courtesy to at least _ask_ what Sakusa wants to do. “I getcha for a week, right?”

Sakusa’s eyes narrow.

“Oh, don’t gimme that look, Omi-kun. How d’ya expect me to fulfill yer greatest desires if ya don’t at least give me a little hint about whatcha like in a boyfriend?”

Sakusa heaves a sigh and flips up his wrist to check his watch. Atsumu’s eyes flicker to it. “I don’t know, Miya. That’s up for you to figure out.”

“Yer not a good boyfriend, y’know.”

“So I’ve been told.” Sakusa stands up, suddenly, and it strikes Atsumu just how _tall_ he is, towering over his seat and, quite literally, looking down at him. “I need to get to class now. I’m on the opposite side of campus.”

“Didja want me to walk ya?”

“Are you on the opposite side of campus?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then no.” Sakusa pulls out his mask and slips it over his ears, much to Atsumu’s dismay. He picks up his coffee—still steaming, and says a simple, “Thanks for breakfast, Miya.”

Atsumu tries to say _Yer welcome_ at the same time he tries to say, _No, thank_ you _,_ so it comes out as a strangled, “Yer thank you,” which is embarrassing and stupid and a million percent totally _uncool_ , but Sakusa doesn’t seem to notice, and he gives a wave behind his head as he exits the coffee shop.

Atsumu wants to kick himself, but Osamu’s voice snaps him out of his mental daze.

“What the fuck was that all about?”

Just like that, the atmosphere surroundings Atsumu’s astounded mind shatters, and he’s yanked back into his seat at the now-empty table, where a ring of condensation has gathered around his forgotten iced coffee.

“Mind yer business,” Atsumu says, but on the inside—twin telepathy or not—he’s thinking the same exact thing.

* * *

Atsumu’s classes pass by uneventfully. He’s happy to see that his brain is functioning at typical speeds once again, and he isn’t struggling to keep his eyelids open. When his literature professor cold-calls him, he has an answer—and a good one, too—that Atsumu rewards himself with a text message that he shoots off before he has time to second guess it.

 **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi

what time r u free?

Sakusa doesn’t respond for hours, but that doesn’t surprise him—Sakusa _would_ be the kind of guy who diligently pays attention in class, who doesn’t check his phone or doesn’t care enough to answer messages. So Atsumu entertains himself once—just once—by this one text, one that he hopes will, at least, draw out the smallest upwards curl on Sakusa’s lips when he reads it.

In between classes, as Atsumu strolls to grab a haphazard lunch from the dining hall salad bar, Sakusa finally, finally responds.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> I’ll be available at 4:30.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> meet me at the bus stop!

He doesn’t get response, but he assumes that a response is an automatic _yes._

* * *

p.m.

* * *

Which it is. It’s a yes. Atsumu tries his damn hardest to pass as casual, which isn’t easy when a queasiness erupts in his stomach. It’s the same sensation he used to get in high school when mentally preparing himself for a challenging opponent. _Butterflies_. He hates that term. It’s not cool. But the truth is—and Atsumu hates to admit this—that as cocky and sure of himself as he tries to be, it takes only the smallest thing to catch him off balance.

Like seeing Sakusa chatting with someone whom Atsumu doesn’t recognize—a boy with floppy brown hair and wide and friendly eyes—and _laughing_. Atsumu almost spontaneously combusts at the sight.

He doesn’t recognize the person responsible for making Sakusa laugh. The boy looks vaguely familiar, the way unfamiliar classmates do before you realize you met them last weekend while drunk out of your mind. Atsumu somehow pulls one word from his throat, but not before clearing it a few times. “Omi-kun!”

Immediately, Sakusa’s smile drops like a sack of bricks and he stares at Atsumu with the most bland, distasteful expression that Atsumu begins to overthink things, that maybe, just maybe, Sakusa really _does_ hate him, and he’s making him suffer with every waking moment they spend together.

The boy next to Sakusa begins cackling, and Sakusa throws him a dirty look, too, and the tightness around Atsumu’s chest loosens a hair. “Omi-kun?” he asks, without any preamble, only a chuckle that clearly comes at the expense of Sakusa’s pride.

“Shut up.”

“How’d you already get on nickname basis like that? Kiyoomi doesn’t even let me call him Ki-chan like I used to when we were kids.”

Atsumu lets out a breath and cracks open a wide grin. “Ki-chan, huh?”

“Don’t you dare,” Sakusa says, though it’s unclear who he’s speaking to. He’s not wearing a mask, surprisingly, and Atsumu wonders why he isn’t. Did he drop his mask while rushing to class? Did he forget it at his seat and only realize much later? “I will never speak to either of you again.”

“I’m Komori Motoya.” Komori waves, and Atsumu returns it. “I’m Sakusa’s cousin.”

 _Ah_. That explains the informality. “Miya Atsumu. But people usually call me Atsumu.”

“Wow, you really _are_ the setter from Inarizaki!” Atsumu opens his mouth, asking how the hell did he know that, but Komori nods enthusiastically. “That’s so cool. Nice to meet you, Atsumu-kun. I’ve only heard a little about you from Kiyoomi-kun so hopefully I can get to know you later this week!” Right. This week. This week only—because by next Monday, Atsumu will wake up and this strange surreal trance will be over. “Well, I’ll be going now. Gotta get to practice. See ya!” Komori gives one last salute and Sakusa lifts his hand as Komori begins the trek in the same direction that they came.

Atsumu watches as he retreats. “Where’s he off to?”

“Volleyball practice.”

“He plays volleyball here? I never played him before. I feel like I woulda recognized him if he did.”

“Not the rec league, Miya. He’s on varsity.” Just as Atsumu has grown slightly more accustomed to seeing Sakusa without his mask, Sakusa pulls out the small ziplock bag. He pulls out a mask and slips it over his ears, adjusting the top so it fits snug around his nose and cheeks. “You just met one of the best liberos in the country.”

Oh. Okay. _Wow_. Totally not a subtle flex at all. No wonder Komori recognized him easily—he might not be a star player now, but Atsumu’s face was known, way back in the day.

“Didja play on the same team in high school, then?”

There it is again—the slight stiffness in Sakusa’s shoulders. He does, however, relax it with a sharp exhale, and nods carefully, as if he’s worried his head will fall off from that slight movement. “We did. You don’t remember playing against him in our game?”

“I remember all my serves kept gettin’ bumped.”

Sakusa nods. “That was probably Komori.”

 _No_. It was Sakusa. Atsumu knows it was Sakusa. Truth be told, Atsumu doesn’t remember _anyone_ except for Sakusa in that game.

“Didja have any plans for the rest of the day?” Atsumu asks.

“Studying.”

“That’s it?”

Sakusa’s eyes narrow. “It’s Tuesday, Miya.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever ya say.” Atsumu pauses. “Ki-chan.”

Instead of getting a disgruntled response like he expected, Sakusa merely rolls his eyes. If Atsumu didn’t know better, he’d think it was a laugh, much like how earlier’s smile was almost a smile.

Atsumu opens his mouth, thinking that maybe it’d be polite to ask Sakusa how his day went, or share about how _his_ day went, but honestly, the words die on his tongue before they can even form. Because Sakusa doesn’t really glance at Atsumu, but stares off at the street like he did yesterday morning. He’s an intense person, Sakusa Kiyoomi, and Atsumu desperately wants to know what’s going on inside of his head.

“I take it yer not one who likes study dates.”

Sakusa sighs. “I take it _you’re_ not one who likes to actually study during study dates.”

“Touche. Are ya busy tomorrow?”

This catches Sakusa by surprise, and he glances over at him. His dark eyes look more brown than black in the bright sun. They’re warmer than Atsumu expected, less confrontational than yesterday—or perhaps Atsumu is imagining it. “Studying.”

“Besides that.”

“Studying keeps me busy.”

“Well, ya gotta eat sometime, right?” Atsumu reaches out to put a hand on Sakusa’s shoulder. The movement is automatic, but Sakusa must have a sixth sense for the impending physical touch, and Atsumu freezes when his fingers are about a millimeter away. He can quickly retracts his hand and clears his throat. Thankfully, the bus arrives, punctual as usual, and Sakusa and Atsumu clear the way for passengers to unload before climbing aboard. Once settled in two seats at the front—Atsumu is sure to leaves some space between himself and Sakusa—Atsumu continues, “Do ya wanna come over for dinner? I’ll fix ya somethin’ good.”

Sakusa stares out the window. “Do you even know how to cook?”

“Yer lookin’ at one of the best second-year chefs in all of Chiyoda.”

Sakusa snorts. “I’m sure you are.”

“Ya don’t believe me?”

“No.”

“Ya don’t even know me!”

“All the more reason.”

Atsumu crosses his arms. The bus lurches forward, and he wonders, briefly, if he’ll be able to convince Sakusa to let him over to his apartment in the next five days—for some reasons, Atsumu envisions it to be an elegant space, sparkling clean. Atsumu isn’t _messy_ , per say, but Sakusa radiates that vibe of everything needing to be perfect. “I’ll never call ya Ki-chan ever again.”

“You’re already calling me stupid nicknames—”

“It’s cheaper than treatin’ me to a dinner out, don’t ya think?”

Sakusa side-eyes Atsumu. It’s incredible, how he’s able to express so much while keeping the bottom of his face completely covered. He looks like he wants to say more, but relents. “Fine.”

“Alright.” Atsumu waits until the bus doors squeak shut and the grating sound of rubber tires against concrete dies down before declaring loudly, “It’s a date!”

Sakusa throws him a withering glare, knowing full well that Atsumu’s trying to piss him off, that they’ve attracted the attention of the packed bus around them, but Atsumu can’t help it—he laughs. This is the most interesting thing to happen to him in university thus far, and it isn’t often that a tall, attractive, stubborn guy is willing to unconditionally date someone for a week. Atsumu decides that if he gets to have Sakusa for a week, then he might as well enjoy it—after all, he’s got nothing to lose.


	3. wednesday

a.m.

* * *

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Good morning, Miya.

Atsumu wonders if Sakusa is going to send him ‘Good morning, Miya.’ everyday. He doesn’t text ‘Good night,’ which seems like an interesting character quirk. Sakusa must be a morning person, then, if he sends a ‘Good morning’ text in the mornings before Atsumu even has time to jolt awake from his alarm.

It’s not even ‘Good morning Atsumu’ or ‘Good morning, Miya!’ or anything even mildly heartwarming like that. Sakusa’s tone in his text messages is as dry as Atsumu could’ve probably guessed based on his manner of speaking. But would it really hurt him to soften it with a single emoji? Apparently so.

As Atsumu brushes his teeth, he uses his left hand to type back a response.

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> mornin!

Atsumu decides not to be bothered by Sakusa’s wet-toilet paper personality. The sooner he can accept that Sakusa does as Sakusa is, the faster any nerves will evaporate.

Sakusa doesn’t respond despite the fact that he’d texted no more than ten minutes before. He doesn’t have read receipts on, either, which means that there  _ is _ still a possibility that he hasn’t glanced at it, but Atsumu has the sneaking suspicion that that’s just not the case. Back when Atsumu dated around in high school—and the six-month thing he had with one of his volleyball teammates last year—he’d become used to constant messaging and being expected to be on call for all hours of the day. He supposes his friendships are like that, too, but the expectations triple with the word  _ commitment _ thrown in.

It’s refreshing, in its own way, but not really, since Atsumu would much rather be in the position of being pursued rather than doing the position. But he’s the one that got himself roped up in this mess, anyway, so he has no choice but to suck it up and deal with it.

A sudden impulse strikes, one that Atsumu mulls over as he rinses out his mouth and pats his face dry. He stumbles out of the bathroom and, while stuffing his backpack with notebooks and a few spare granola bars, he gives into the temptation and calls Sakusa’s phone.

The line hums, and Atsumu tries to shake off the feeling of nerves. He shouldn’t be nervous. He gets Sakusa for a week—whatever that means—so it’s not like he’s doing anything out of the ordinary. Boyfriends call their boyfriends all the time, right? Whenever the mood hits? Sure, yeah, maybe it’s a bit of an unusual circumstance this time around, but Atsumu is  _ still _ supposed to be Sakusa’s boyfriend. So, no, it’s not weird—or that’s what Atsumu tells himself.

After the sixth ring, a dry voice picks up. “What?”

“G’morning, Omi-kun!”

“Why are you calling.” There’s a screeching in the background, like a kettle, and Atsumu flinches as he turns down the volume on his phone. Sakusa curses under his breath and within seconds the noise stops. “Do you want something?”

“I’m just callin’ to say mornin’ to ya. Do I need to want somethin’ in order to call ya?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be like that. Yer not gonna greet me with a good mornin’, too?”

“I already did.” Sakusa’s voice sounds a hair gruffer than usual, and Atsumu imagines, for a moment, that it’s not the uptight, picture-perfect Sakusa Kiyoomi he’s speaking to, with his perfectly shaped moles and his perfectly swept hair. The Sakusa in Atsumu’s mind has a bedhead and his t-shirt is rumpled. “Was that not enough for you?”

“Just thought it’d be nice to hear ya voice.” Atsumu pauses to switch to speaker mode. Sakusa remains silent in response, and Atsumu has to tap the screen of his phone to make sure it’s still connected. “Omi-kun? Ya there?”

A long, drawn-out sigh. “Yes, Miya. I’m here.”

“Wadaya up to right now?”

“I’m fixing breakfast.”

“Watcha got for breakfast?”

“Toast.” Sakusa scoffs. Atsumu strongly considers turning on video call, but that might be a bit  _ too _ much for Sakusa, especially considering his current lack of engagement levels—though that seems to be the norm for him. 

“Cool. So.” Atsumu drags his backpack into the kitchen and reaches for his jacket that’s crumpled on the floor. “I was thinkin’ about dinner. Gotta go pick up some stuff to make it today cuz I’m out. Do ya got any dietary restrictions I should know about? So I don’t gotta worry that I’ll accidentally kill ya.”

“No. I don’t.”

“What about anything ya don’t like eating?”

“I’m not too picky.” Atsumu almost wishes Sakusa was. He still doesn’t know what he wants to make and as much as he’s bragged to Sakusa about his cooking skills, most of his meals are instant packages from the discount aisle. It’s been a while since he cooked a good, decent meal. 

“Alright, I’ll figure somethin’ out. What time are ya done with class?”

Sakusa hesitates. “I’ll be done at six.”

Atsumu purses his lips and frowns. Okay, so maybe a part of him had been hoping Sakusa would be done earlier, so they could go to the grocery store together. After all, he didn’t want to go all the way out of his way to purchase ingredients and cook something only for it to be the one thing that Sakusa despises. “I’ll just meetja back at my place. Ya think you can find it just fine?”

“If you send me the address.”

“Okay.” Atsumu glances at the clock. He could, probably, keep talking. In fact, he could keep talking until they meet up later, but there’s a slow hesitation with every word that travels from Sakusa’s mouth and out of Atsumu’s phone. Atsumu almost asks Sakusa if he wants to join him for breakfast, if he wants to go to school with him. 

Would Sakusa say no? Probably not. He hasn’t said no yet. But Atsumu has to figure out this whole dinner thing, since obviously Sakusa won’t.

“Alright, well, I’m headed to the bus stop now.” Atsumu tugs on his shoes, grabbing his keys from a hook on the wall. “I’ll see ya later?”

Sakusa grunts, which Atsumu translates as a  _ yes _ .

“Enjoy yer breakfast, Omi-kun!”

Sakusa hesitates. Atsumu desperately wishes he could see Sakusa’s face right now, if there’s a wide smile on it or a frown or if it’s as bland as ever. “Talk later, Miya. Have a good day.”

Perhaps Atsumu is imagining it, but Sakusa’s voice softens ever so slightly.

No, he’s imagining it.

Definitely imagining it.

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> hope ya have a good day!

* * *

Atsumu turns to help from his classmate to help him decide what to cook.

“So.”

“No, you can’t have my notes.”

“You haven’t heard what I have to say.”

Gin snorts, and he lifts a finger to his lips. “I’m tryna pay attention, ya dirtbag. Quit distractin’ me before professor calls us out again.”

“I got a date tonight and I need yer help.”

Gin’s eyes light up, wide and kind and completely uninterested in the lecture now. He ducks his head down a little and makes a note in the margins of his page.  _ ATSUMU DATE NIGHT?! _

Atsumu snorts. “Why’re ya jottin’ that down?”

“So I don’t forget it later.”

“Why wouldja need to remember—”

“Wadaya need, Tsumu-kun? No, wait, I wanna know who it’s with first. Who’s it with?”

Atsumu pauses as the professor’s eyes drift around the room, looking for someone to call on. He’s never been the super studious type—smart, a little, although his questionable work ethic in academics has led people to believe otherwise—and he pointedly avoids eye contact with his teacher. When their professor gestures and calls on another half-awake student in the back of the room, Atsumu answers, “It’s with Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Yer kiddin’.”

“Not kiddin’.”

“Ya mean  _ the _ Sakusa? The one who only dates fer, like, seven minutes?”

“Seven days, Gin.”

“But to get a date with him, ya hafta— _ oh _ .” Atsumu hadn’t thought it was possible for Gin’s eyes to get even wider, but he’s proven wrong when his eyes threaten to jump out of his skull. It’s a nice change from the way Osamu’s eyes constantly squint at Atsumu, as if trying to calculate how many square inches of emptiness occupies his skull. “Atsumu. Tell me ya  _ didn’t _ .”

“I did. I asked him out.”

“Why the hell wouldja do that? How do ya even know him? Jesus, Tsumu. Yer nuts, sometimes.” Gin shakes his head and pulls his hood up, looking about two seconds away from burying his face into his hands and never coming out. “Ya didn’t think to tell me as soon as it happened?”

“I tried, but ya ignored my text!”

“Cuz you were askin’ for my answers for our problem set!”

“Which I finished no thanks to ya, by the way.”

Gin snorts. “That’s why I didn’t give ‘em to ya. I know ya didn’t need ‘em.”

“ _ Anyway _ .” Atsumu sighs. He’s known Gin since high school, having played on the same team together—it was no surprise that Gin also stuck around the Tokyo area, but since they’d both decided on biology as their majors, it turns out they were stuck in a lot of the same lectures, too. It’s comforting to have had someone like Gin around, but it could also be a bit of a pain in the ass, because Gin always said the opposite of what Atsumu wants to hear. “I’m makin’ dinner tonight. Invited him over. Wadaya think is a good date night meal?”

“Yer talking’ like I’ve ever cooked a home-cooked meal for a significant other before.”

“Just. Pretend like  _ you  _ were dating’ me. What wouldja wanna have on a first date?”

“Okay, one, I would never—and I mean this in the nicest way possible, Atsumu—but I would never date ya.” Gin wrinkles his nose. “I would wanna have Osamu’s cookin’ on our first date.”

“Gin!”

“Keep it down!” Gin hisses, and both boys take a sudden extra interest in their notebooks when the professor glances over their way. A few lingering looks from the students around them are enough to shut Atsumu up for approximately three minutes before resuming their conversation. 

“Well?”

“You should prolly do somethin’ that don’t require lotsa cookin’,” Gin responds, “since ya suck at it.”

“I don’t suck at cookin’.”

“When was the last time ya cooked a full meal ’n not one of those fifty-yen instant ramen packs?”

Gin has a point.

“So? What’s yer suggestion then?”

Gin twirls a pen in his hand and presses his lips together. The reason why Atsumu asks him is because he knows Gin is as similar to Atsumu as he can get. Though Atsumu and Osamu may be twins, Gin has the same simple, straightforward personality that Atsumu gets along with better. Osamu is a bit of a snake, sometimes, which people don’t realize because he’s often too quiet to advertise it.

Speaking of Osamu. He’d texted Atsumu relentlessly throughout the day, demanding to know what Atsumu was doing with Sakusa, and Atsumu had ignored all of them. He’ll have to catch his twin up to speed one way or another, but he wasn’t about to let Osamu in on this just yet. Mostly because, unlike Gin, Osamu lacks the tact required to be a generally nice person.

“Maybe omurice? Or somethin’ like that.” Gin suggests. “I cook it whenever I got friends over for studyin’. ‘Cause it’s fast and easy and doesn’t require too much prep. And assumin’ ya don’t have a ton of actual fresh groceries—don’t give me that look, Atsumu, ‘cause I know ya don’t—it won’t be too expensive to buy ‘em, either.”

“Yer a genius, Gin.”

“I know I am— _ stop copying off my notes _ .”

Atsumu pulls out his phone and discreetly begins putting together a grocery shopping list. He stops short when he sees two new notifications.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> I’m having a good day.

And then, six minutes later:

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> I hope you’re having a good day too.

What a weird fucking guy.

* * *

p.m.

* * *

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> do ya like brown rice or white rice?
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> I don’t have a preference.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> u eat eggs, right?
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Everyone eats eggs, Miya.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> not everyone!
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Fine.
> 
> MOST people eat eggs.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> are there any vegetables u don’t eat?
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Really, Miya, it doesn’t matter. I’m not picky.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> okokok i’m just checking
> 
> btw here’s my address
> 
> _ Miya Atsumu has shared his location _
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Thanks
> 
> For checking.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> see u soon, omi!

* * *

It honestly feels like a victory, or at least an achievement of some sort, that Atsumu managed to pull a double text out of Sakusa. Or any texts at all, really. There’s a knock at the door right as Atsumu kills the heat on the stovetop.

“Comin’!” He wipes off his hands on a kitchen towel and takes an extra moment to make sure there aren’t any stains on his shirt. As expected, Sakusa is punctual, arriving precisely at 7PM, which he said he would.

The grocery store had been empty today, thank God—Atsumu couldn’t stand the idea of people being around him while he experienced a mildly gay existential crises about the appropriate green beans to buy.

Atsumu swings open the door and says, “Welcome to my humble abode, Omi-kun. Glad ya found it here okay.”

“One of my friends lives in this complex, actually.” Sakusa ambles in and slips his shoes off, placing it neatly on the mostly empty rack at Atsumu’s door. Atsumu notices Sakusa noticing that Atsumu has about three pairs of sneakers strewn about in the hallway, and he notices the faint scrunch of the nose that appears over the top of Sakusa’s mask.

“Ya can take yer mask off, ya know. There ain’t anyone else here.”

“You live by yourself?”

“Nah, my brother usually spends Wednesdays at his boyfriend’s place.” Truth be told, Atsumu had shot Osamu a text message to keep out of the apartment until the next morning, promising that he’d finally explain everything in person during breakfast tomorrow. The last thing Atsumu needed was for the pressure to double from Osamu hanging around—both with regards to Sakusa’s presence  _ and _ Atsumu’s cooking. “We got the place to ourselves.”

“Great,” Sakusa says in a voice that makes it clear it’s very much not-great.

Atsumu ignores him and leads Sakusa into the kitchen, where he’s already set the table. Sakusa slides off his bag and leaves it at his feet, opting to keep on the tracksuit Atsumu recognizes from his high school days.

Atsumu is a relatively clean person, but the kitchen, in particular, is Osamu’s sacred space. So, of course, it’s absolutely clean to the point of being absurd, which is more than half the reason why Atsumu is okay with the prospect of having Sakusa over rather than going out to eat. He’d suggested a dinner at home because—well, to be frank, Atsumu isn’t exactly rolling in wealth, so going out to eat would’ve made a dent in his monthly allocation of food funds. 

But there’s something inherently intimate about spending the night eating a home cooked meal, one that Atsumu hadn’t really recognized until Sakusa is seated at his dining room table, sans mask. His back is straight and his face makes it look like he’s sitting on a chair of thorns.

“How were yer classes?” Atsumu asks as he pulls out two large bowls. He distributes generous portions of rice (a little less in his bowl, because he’d already eaten plenty in the taste-testing phase to make sure it was seasoned correctly) and turns on the burner on the still-hot pan. 

“They were fine.”

“What are ya studying again, Omi-kun?”

“History.” Sakusa clears his throat. “I see you settled on fried rice after all.”

Atsumu stills. “Was that supposed to be an insult?”

“No. I just expected it. Not an insult.”

Atsumu whips his head around, and there it is again—that  _ barely there _ smile, the same one Sakusa showed off to him yesterday. It erupts a fit of rustling inside of Atsumu’s chest, which feels so stupid and juvenile but Atsumu can’t even be mad about it. He narrows his eyes at Sakusa. “Are ya making’ fun of me?”

“No. You kept talking about how you were such a good cook, but I had a feeling you’d opt for something like fried rice.”

“Not just  _ any _ fried rice, Omi Omi. I cooked  _ kimchi _ fried rice.”

“I can see that.”

“With fried eggs.” On cue, Atsumu places the bowls down and cracks two eggs, which hit the skillet with a sizzle. “I dunno if ya hate kimchi, but—”

“I don’t hate it.” Sakusa’s eyes begin to wander as he looks around the apartment for the first time since entering.

Atsumu can’t help but feel like he’s under close scrutiny, that no corner will be left unobserved. The apartment he lives in is closer to a studio than a full apartment, despite having two separate bedrooms—everything feels cramped and, most of the time, Atsumu prefers to stay out rather than stay in. It feels even smaller with Sakusa sitting in it, and seems to shrink even more under Sakusa’s gaze.

It’s become his home, though—the peeling wallpaper, the leaky faucet, the annotated calendar hanging on the back of their front door—it’s where Atsumu has created a life for himself in university, and it feels a bit unfamiliar to have a stranger like Sakusa be stuck right in the middle of it.

Sakusa takes special interest in the giant poster hanging from the door of Atsumu’s bedroom. “Ah. That’s the Spring Tournament poster from two years ago.”

“Ya remember that?” Atsumu flips the eggs. “Do ya like yer eggs runny or over-hard?”

“Runny is good.”

“Yer wish is my command.”

“I think I have that poster, too,” Sakusa says. His eyes haven’t left it for a moment. “It’s somewhere in my room at home.”

“Ya go home often?”

Sakusa shakes his head, curls swinging back and forth, and Atsumu has to resist the urge to stretch across the table and feel how ridiculously soft they must be. “Just during holidays and stuff.”

“Gotcha.” Atsumu places the eggs atop the bowl, garnishes with some crushed dried seaweed, and slides it across the table. “Here ya go. Can I getcha anything to drink?”

“Just water, thank you.”

“Yer a simple man, ain’t ya, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa gives him a flat look. 

“Still not fond of ‘Omi-kun’, eh?”

“Whatever.” Sakusa shrugs it off as Atsumu places a glass of water and a freshly washed spoon on the table. He pulls up a second chair and scoots it in as close as possible as Sakusa places his palms together. “ _ Itadakimasu _ .”

The moment Atsumu sits down, he begins to panic a little bit. What do people talk about over dinner? Should he even say anything? What if the food is terrible? He should’ve had Osamu over to make sure it was okay, because even though it tastes fine to him, his taste buds are probably a little fucked up anyway from too much MSG-filled food and copious amounts of alcohol on the weekends.

His panic heightens as Sakusa takes a bite and chews slowly.

A moment of silence as Atsumu can’t help but stare at Sakusa’s delicate chewing.

He swallows.

For a few tense moments, Sakusa fixes his eyes on the bowl of food in front of him, and Atsumu can’t help but feel a little sick. 

All of this is broken when an actual smile appears at the twist of Sakusa’s lips. What strikes Atsumu, then, is that Sakusa’s rare smiles reach all the way up to his eyes, crinkling in amusement, and Atsumu thinks he might be going into cardiac arrest. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Atsumu exhales violently. “Of course I am! Ya didn’t tell me nothin’ about what ya wanted to eat, and so I had to whip up something outta the blue. Don’t tell me yer enjoyin’ seeing me suffer.”

“I’m enjoying it a little bit,” Sakusa admits. He glances away, and Atsumu immediately wants to know why he doesn’t maintain eye contact. “Stop worrying, Miya. It’s good.”

“Are ya lyin’ to me to make me feel better?”

“I’m not that nice.”

Atsumu exhales a breath of relief, one that is willing to be gracious enough to let Sakusa’s cruel humor slide, just this once. “Yer a heartbreaker, Omi Omi.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond, but he does take another bite. Atsumu has to remind himself not to stare too hard. He feels at least a little ridiculous due to the wave of validation that washes over him. A thin sheen of perspiration had collected itself at the nape of his neck, his temple, even the curve of his back—and he hadn’t realized it was from nerves until now. 

“So what’s yer thing?” Atsumu asks, knowing full well that Sakusa wasn’t one for initiating small talk. “Ya like history?”

Sakusa chews and swallows a mouthful and purses his lips. “I guess I do.”

“That’s my least favorite subject ever. ’S boring and reading textbooks take too long.”

Sakusa shrugs with a thread of nonchalance that makes Atsumu think he’s heard this before. “I think it’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just think it is.” Sakusa clears his throat and reaches for his glass of water, and Atsumu is the lucky son of a bitch who’s able to observe his neck as it ripples while he drinks from it. Sakusa’s skin is smooth and looks soft. Is it soft? “What about you, then, Miya? What do  _ you _ think is interesting?”

“I dunno what’s interestin’ to me. I study science ‘cause it just makes sense.” Atsumu taps his spoon against the rim of his bowl, considering it more. “I switched over last year. Was in business with my brother but I thought it was kinda boring.”

“Is anything  _ not _ boring to you?”

Is this an accusation or an actual question? Atsumu doesn’t know, but he considers this. “Most things are, I guess,” he admits, because the only times he’s even remotely interested in anything is when he’s messing around with his friends, playing volleyball, annoying his brother, or, it seems, trying to get to know Sakusa. “I like playin’ volleyball, though. It’s the one time I feel like I know what I’m doin’ and I can do exactly what I wanna do.”

Sakusa nods, slow and deliberate, chewing on the words the same way he chews on the fried rice. It’s weird how intently he listens; Atsumu, always the brash sibling, the loud-mouthed brother, has grown used to people never truly listening. Atsumu thinks that he’s about to earn himself a follow up question, but Sakusa merely says, “I see.”

“I got a game tomorrow. You should come and support me and my team.” Atsumu brightens without even meaning to. “I know yer busy, but our games are usually later in the evenings anyway.”

“Ah.” Sakusa shifts in his seat. Atsumu is very, very close to asking him if he wants to join, because he has no problem booting Osamu from their three-man team in order to make room for a guy who was literally the best spiker in all of Japan. “Maybe.”

But a  _ maybe _ is better than a  _ no _ , and Atsumu can’t help but grin to himself as he shovels another spoonful. He still doesn’t know what, exactly, to think about this guy, but he cannot deny the satisfaction he feels when Sakusa’s eyes linger on him ever so slightly.

“So are ya gonna tell me why ya date around?” Atsumu asks.

Sakusa’s eyes drop again, and a scowl crosses across his face. “Mind your business, Miya.”

Atsumu does, for the time being, but he knows full well that it’s only day three, after all. If he can already get a genuine smile to break out Sakusa’s face—even if only for just a moment—Atsumu has full confidence that he’ll wiggle confessions out of him, one way or another.

Like how he can get Sakusa to talk about what he thinks of Chiyoda (it’s nice), if he wants to leave Tokyo (probably not), if he has any siblings (no). Above all else, Atsumu realizes one thing: Sakusa Kiyoomi is normal. He begins to open up more, not with the easiness of his words—conversation is still like pulling teeth with him—but in the increasingly more frequent eye contact that Atsumu realizes they’re making. It’s nestled in the way Sakusa’s shoulders gradually begin to fall away from his ears, and he even earns a few laughs when he embarrasses himself talking about the time last year that he showed up to the wrong lecture for an entire week before realizing he was in the wrong classroom.

Atsumu, too, feels himself open up like a morning glory in full bloom, thinking less and less about what he’s saying or how he sounds and just going for it. It’s liberating in its own way, especially after Atsumu begins to accept that Sakusa’s expressions of distaste can’t—or shouldn’t—be taken personally. Perhaps being around Osamu all the time prepared Atsumu for dinners like this, where he has to carry the conversation with his fat mouth and tolerate blunt remarks that come at the expense of Atsumu’s dignity.

Would Sakusa ever lead the conversation, or anything else, or is Atsumu stuck being in the lead? What could influence Sakusa to take charge in their interactions, instead of leaving it up to Atsumu?

_ Maybe if he had a couple drinks first. _

The lightbulb drops in Atsumu’s head as he shuts the door after Sakusa bids him farewell, and as he turns to clean the dishes, Atsumu begins to do what he does best: scheming. 

Because if he can play his cards right, maybe, just maybe, he can play Sakusa Kiyoomi.

* * *

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Thanks again for dinner.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> no problem at all!
> 
> hope u liked it
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> I did.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> gnight!
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Good night, Miya.


	4. thursday

a.m.

* * *

“I ain’t givin’ ya none of yer mornin’ coffee til ya fess up.”

Atsumu groans and slumps down against the coffee counter. Osamu had, by some margin of a miracle, convinced Atsumu to crawl out of bed an extra thirty minutes early to allow ample time for conversation. Osamu’s always been a morning person, and has always tried his damned hardest to drag Atsumu along with him—the only reason he succeeded today was because Atsumu totally owed him for actually complying and staying out of the way when Sakusa came over.

He’s demanding, in a different way than Atsumu. It’s not as obvious with other people, or maybe it’s that Atsumu is the only Osamu is demanding towards. “I need my coffee for my brain to work, stupid.”

Osamu rolls his eyes but grabs a cup anyway and gets to work, autopilot turned on alongside the side-eye he throws at Atsumu every now and then. He knows Atsumu’s regular coffee order by heart now that Atsumu’s convinced Osamu could do it in his sleep. As much of a brat as he can sometimes be, Atsumu has to appreciate that Osamu, at the very least, makes damn good coffee. “Yer brain’s useless even with ten cups of caffeine.”

MSBY Coffee is empty, save for Yachi, Osamu’s coworker, who’s seated at the register reading a book. Atsumu supposes it’s a blessing, because no one needs to hear him complain to his brother about how totally lame he is in contrast to his apparent boyfriend. “Anyway. I’m datin’ Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Yer kiddin’.”

“Not kiddin’.”

“And why’re ya doin’ that?”

“Wadaya mean, ‘why’?”

Osamu pauses a moment as he thinks about it. “I dunno. It seems feeble when he only dates around for, like, seven seconds?”

“Seven _days_ , Samu.”

“He doesn’t seem like yer type, though?”

Atsumu merely shrugs. He didn’t even know he has a type, but sometimes, his brother knows him better than himself. He certainly didn’t expect to ever be seeing anyone who texted ‘Good morning, Miya’ everyday, yet here he was, another text message stored in his phone. Atsumu hasn’t answered yet, mostly because he kind of wants to know what Osamu thinks of the whole ordeal. “He’s good-looking, and I guess that’s my type.”

Osamu nods in a rare moment of agreement. “I've never really see him around campus. He’s cuter than I expected.”

“Keep yer eyes off my boyfriend.”

“How do ya even know the guy?” Osamu tops off the coffee with a pump of vanilla, stirring it with a straw, and slides it over the countertop to Atsumu. He pulls up one of his wooden stools to join him, sipping from his hot coffee—black, of course—and leans against the countertop. “I never even seen him here before.”

“Remember how I woke up late on Monday?”

Osamu snorts. “Yeah.”

“I ran into him at the bus stop. He takes the bus after me.”

“He made small talk with you?”

“Well…no,” Atsumu admits. He sips the coffee slowly, savoring the sweetness on his tongue before it melts away. “I was already a little delirious and stuff from stayin’ up late with Suna.”

“Yer tellin’ me. He was almost late to his exam, ya know.” Osamu throws him another dirty look, but Atsumu waves him off, both of them knowing full well that Suna is as much of an enabler as Atsumu is.

“Not my problem.”

“So ya just…asked him out?”

Atsumu offers Osamu a short recap, about his questionable thought process that led him to ask out Sakusa, about what it’s like to talk to the guy, and how Atsumu still has no fucking idea what to make of him. Osamu nods as he listens carefully, always more attentive than Atsumu often gives him credit for, brows furrowed over his large eyes as he processes each word with the precision and tender care that Atsumu has often lacked.

Despite the care, however, Osamu lacks tact (not that Atsumu has any of that, either). “So ya impulsively decided to ask this guy out for a week,” Osamu summarizes, “even though you and I both know yer gonna get yer heart broken.”

“No one’s breakin’ any hearts here.”

“Not yet. It’s only halfway through the week, right?” Osamu taps his fingers on his counter as he hums in consideration. “Was fried rice really the only thing ya thought to cook up for him?”

“Don’t be givin’ me that attitude! Gin suggested it.”

“Why wouldja take relationship advice from _Gin_ , of all people?”

“Because he ain’t gonna judge me, unlike some uppity-snobs like you.”

Osamu flips him off before reaching over to grab a thick slice of banana bread. He places it on the counter in between them, and slices it in half with a plastic knife. Atsumu nods in appreciation and picks up a piece for himself. “Do ya think he actually likes ya? Not in a romantic way, I guess, since no moron would be stupid enough to actually be in love with ya.”

“Fuck off, Samu.”

“No, hear me out.” Osamu tilts his head. “D’ya think he’s at least a little interested in gettin’ to know ya?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I think so? He’s not as cold as he was on day one.” Atsumu chews the pastry thoughtfully and swallows, replaying the moments he and Sakusa have shared thus far. “‘Course, he could just tryna be polite, but I dunno. He seems like the type of guy who’d actually say something if he hated me that much.”

“Or maybe he’s just nicer than you.”

“Shut yer trap.”

Osamu leans back against his stool and raises an eyebrow at his brother. “Do _you_ like him?”

“I like him enough,” Atsumu admits, in that vague way he always does whenever there’s someone he’s genuinely interested in. Because everyone knows it’s safer to set the bar low enough that disappointment can’t breed misery. “I think he’s an interestin’ guy that most people wish they had the chance to get to know, so why not go for it? Even if it’s just for a week.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“I didn’t say nothin’.”

“Do ya forget I’ve been puttin’ up with yer ‘hm’ commentary since we were born?”

“I just think yer being obtuse, as per usual. But that’s none of my business, I guess.”

Atsumu frowns. “Don’t gimme that ‘obtuse’ bullshit, Samu.

Osamu stands up suddenly, and Atsumu turns his head to see a small group of students wander in. “Gimme a minute to take care of this first.”

Atsumu finishes off his half of the banana bread as Osamu switches from bratty twin brother to polite customer service worker. He wipes his fingers on a napkin to pull out his phone once more. Even after all this is over, he thinks, even after Sunday ends and Monday comes around again, Atsumu knows he’s going to save every text message exchange between himself and Sakusa. Not because he’s a sentimental guy or because he needs the memories, but because he wants to remember that it happened.

And, okay, maybe part of him wants to have evidence of this whole ordeal and his participation in Sakusa’s status as an urban legend. He deserves, at minimum, bragging rights—right?

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> anyone ever told u how consistent u are?

Surprisingly, Sakusa responds within seconds.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Yes

Atsumu chews on his lip. More students have begun to filter in, which prevents Osamu from chastising Atsumu further—though he does continue to send disapproving glances his way (especially when he sneaks a hand over the counter to snatch up a bag of chips for later). He

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> are u coming tonight?
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Where?
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> volleyball game!

Typing out the word _volleyball_ immediately gets Atsumu a little antsy. It was true when he’d told Sakusa that the only thing he truly enjoys is the sport, and he’s even considered walk-on tryouts for Chiyoda’s volleyball team. But it doesn’t matter if he’s playing the best team in the nation or just a handful of casual volleyball amateurs in between classes and before beers—Atsumu receives satisfaction from the sport given any circumstances.

He wonders if Sakusa will ever let him set the ball to him. If Sakusa ever plays volleyball, or gets even the smallest itch to touch one, if even for the briefest moment.

Above all else, Atsumu wants to know why Saku quit.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> I’ll try to make it.
> 
> Have a good day.

Atsumu begins to type back a response, pleasantly satisfied with what most people would consider dry messages. Perhaps Sakusa prefers direct messages to avoid the game of interpreting what to say and how to say it. Atsumu doesn’t mind it, not really, considering he’s used to rude messages that his brother sends him on an almost hourly basis.

It’s also possible—though maybe not probable—that Sakusa simply doesn’t know any better. Which is funny to think about, sort of, considering that Sakusa probably has a million times more experience than Atsumu does.

As he finishes off the rest of his coffee and decides to make an early break for class, Atsumu decides that it doesn’t matter what the reason behind his elusive text messages may be. The fact that he’s getting any is a victory in itself. Or that’s how he chooses to see it, and if he chooses it, then it must be true.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Tsumu,” Osamu calls after him as Atsumu stands, pausing to brush off some crumbs that have fallen on his jeans.

Atsumu swings his backpack over his shoulders and slips his hair out of his eyes as he exhales a laugh. “Ya mean like datin’ Sakusa Kiyoomi?” Atsumu snorts and turns to the door, waving his hand in goodbye. “Too late for that.”

Osamu throws him one last withering look, somewhere between a lecture and an expression of disgust, but decides not to say anything—because, as twins, some things don’t need to be said.

* * *

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> What time is your game again?
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> 6pm in gym c
> 
> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Okay.
> 
> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Ooooo so ur gonna make it, omi omi?

* * *

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> ?

* * *

p.m.

* * *

When Atsumu, Osamu, and Gin decided to join the recreational league for volleyball, it was completely on a whim. They’d had too many beers and were reminiscing about _the good ol’ days_ at Inarizaki, about all the plays they wanted to try but never got around to, about all the games they’d lost instead of won. Gin was the one who threw out the idea of forming a team to play in the three-on-three leagues, Osamu was the one who tried to talk him out of it, and Atsumu was the one who drunkenly full-sent and signed them up for their first game the next day.

It was an absolute disaster, since lack of sleep, the lingering effects of a hangover, and extensive breaks from working out had left them fumbling around the court, but it was _fun_. Atsumu hadn’t had that much fun since he’d moved to Tokyo for college, months before that first match, and a small taste of gameplay made him eager to have more.

And so, the tradition of semesterly tournaments had become a thing for him and Osamu and Gin, and they had an absolute blast. Sometimes they practiced in the evenings when they were bored.

“Tsumu!” Osamu calls out as Kuroo, their opponent across the net, nails a scary serve that Atsumu reacts to without hesitation. He’s gotten used to being picked on from serves in three-on-three's—he’s infamous for attempting nasty quick sets that very few amateur players wanted to play against—so it’s certainly different from their glory days.

“Got it!” Atsumu bumps it in an arc towards Osamu, who’s waiting, and positions himself behind Gin. Gin makes his approach right as Osamu sets the ball perfectly, and Atsumu smirks. Osamu, for all his flaws and unnecessary remarks, is a good setter. Not as good at Atsumu, of course, but not too shabby, either.

Gin leaps into the air and swings down, the ball glancing against the edges of Akaashi’s fingers. As usual, Kuroo picks it up with a dive, and Atsumu scowls.

“Let it drop fer once, will ya?”

“Maybe if you actually make it difficult for me to get to.”

“Yer a turd, Kuroo,” Gin says as he runs just in time to complete a two-person block with Osamu as Hinata slams the ball against his hand, sending it flying up.

“C’mon, Samu!” Atsumu yells. A wide smile breaks across his face as he lifts both hands—he’s far from the net, in the back end of the court, but he’s not gonna let that stop him from sending a toss in a near-perfect quick that’s sure to knock the smirk off of Kuroo’s face.

On cue, Osamu makes his approach, as silent and intimidating as ever. Kuroo, Hinata, and Akaashi match him, but they’re a breath of a second too late—by the time they begin to jump up to block, the ball’s already left Atsumu’s fingertips, and Osamu’s slamming his palm downwards in a nasty spike deep in the back of the court.

“Ah, shit.” Kuroo lands on both feet, placing his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. A fine sheen of sweat has collected at his temple, and despite the exhaustion scrawled across his face, Kuroo grins. “It’s totally unfair to have both Miyas on the team together.”

“Um, hello. I’m here, too.” Gin flips off Kuroo as he laughs.

“I like you, Gin, and you’re a great spiker, but the Miyas are something else.”

“It _is_ a little unfair,” Akaashi says. Atsumu shoots him a peace sign, but Akaashi merely rolls his eyes in response. “Besides, Kuroo, your blocking isn’t as on point today as it usually is.”

“Huh? Did you just insult me, Akaashi?”

“No. I was just stating a fact.”

“Oi.” Osamu lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe at his temple. Atsumu does the same and rolls his sleeves under his armpit. His body feels like it’s been stuffed in an oven, but it’s fine. He loves feeling ownership of his body, of the motions he can do, of the plays he can execute with Gin and Osamu. This is the place that became his home in an otherwise unfamiliar campus. “Yer toss was too high.”

“Ya hit it just fine.”

“Shuddup.”

“Last I checked this was a rec league, Samu.”

“Last I checked, yer a better setter than that, Tsumu.”

“Hey—“

“But not as good as me.”

“‘Scuse me? Do I need to remind ya that _I_ was—”

“Atsumu-senpai!” Hinata interrupts. “Um, it’s your turn to serve now.”

“Take it easy on us, will you?” Kuroo calls across the net. “If I jam my fingers again from one of your stupid jump floaters, I’m not gonna be able to—”

“Yeah, I don’t wanna hear the end of that sentence.”

“I’m not going to be able to _take notes_ ,” Kuroo barks. He flips him off across the net, and Atsumu grins. It’s especially fun when he gets the chance to play against other teams who have actual volleyball experience, who can hold their own against his team. “Get your head out of the gutter, Miya.”

Yachi blows the whistle from her position on the sideline—Hinata had somehow convinced her to volunteer as a referee in the rec league—and Atsumu lifts a finger and points right at Kuroo, who rolls his eyes but tenses up anyway.

 _Fuck you_ , Kuroo mouths.

“Oi. Fuck _you_ , Kuroo-san,” Atsumu fills his chest with air before releasing it to settle his heart rate a bit. He tosses it up in a generous arc and feels limitless as he jumps up, arm swinging forward to slam it across the court.

Hinata screeches—it’s actually pretty endearing—as Kuroo digs it, but not without tumbling backwards.

“Fuck you, again,” Kuroo laughs, struggling to his feet as the ball comes flying back to their court.

Atsumu moves on instinct, on hunger for the next point, and on the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He can tell Osamu’s playing well, too, because he hasn’t said much, and he hasn’t missed any serves yet—they’re in the second set, and the next point will get them into the twenties first.

When Hinata somehow pulls off a miraculous overhand receive that even has Osamu’s eyes pop out in surprise, Atsumu prepares himself for Kuroo’s quick set—only to be thrown off with Akaashi’s setter dump that leaves the vein throbbing in his temple out of both irritation and awe. Akaashi smirks at him cheekily before turning to his teammates for gentle high fives.

“Akaashi-san!” Hinata exclaims, always a motivator, always a source of joy on the court. Atsumu has played on the same team before with Hinata, and kind of wishes he’d chosen Hinata over Osamu. But family loyalties were to be expected from the Miyas.

“Fuck you, too, Kaashi-kun,” Atsumu says.

“Do you know any other trash talking than ‘fuck you’?” Osamu comments.

“Shut yer trap.”

“It’s getting kind of old.”

“I didn’t ask ya either, Gin!”

It’s during these moments that Atsumu gets tunnel vision. He has _just_ enough attention to be able to talk smack right back to Kuroo and even his own teammates, but most of that is swept away the moment Yachi blows her whistle again and he’s focusing on the next play. He’s so wrapped up in the game, in fact, that he fails to see a lone figure poke its head through the door and settle itself in one of the benches on the sideline.

“Atsumu!” Gin yells, and Atsumu digs the ball from Hinata’s spike—fast as a bullet, but lacking in the power that other opponents have had—and he uses his momentum to get back on his feet, sprint up to the net as he hears Kuroo curse, and leap up while Osamu sets the ball right into the palm of his hand.

“Yes!” Atsumu catches his breath, giving his brother a high five.

“Congratulations,” Akaashi says bluntly, “you beat a bunch of amateurs at an unbalanced game of three-on-three volleyball.”

“Nah, yer not amateurs.” Atsumu collapses onto his ass in the middle of the court, and Gin and Osamu join him. Kuroo ducks under the net and offers them bottles of water before settling beside them. Atsumu drains the water bottle in less than ten seconds, ballooning his stomach with water, but the dryness of his tongue only makes him want even more. “If ya were, we’d have ended this match even earlier. But I’m glad yer not—it makes victory feel so much sweeter when ya win against people who are actually good.”

“I still think you guys shouldn’t be allowed on the same team,” Kuroo remarks. “It’s unfair for whoever you’re playing against. Actually, all three of you shouldn’t be on the same team; you’ve already played together in high school. That’s _such_ an advantage.”

“Maybe if ya got better at yer spikes, I’d trade ya for Samu.”

“I’ll tradeja, Kuroo-san,” Osamu says. “I’ll take Akaashi-san if ya wanna be with Tsumu. Actually, you can take him for free. Hell, I’ll pay ya to take him off my hands.”

This elicits an undignified yelp from Atsumu and a round of laughter from his friends. “Excuse me? Why do ya always have to go that far, ya good-fer-nothing, disloyal, mediocre-spiking piece of—”

“Miya.”

The sardonic tone shuts up the conversation immediately, and Atsumu whips his head around, squinting at the bright lights of the gym . He’s suddenly thrown back into the somewhat fresh memory of looking up at Sakusa like this, three days ago, at the bus stop, with only his silhouette protecting his eyes from the blazing sun.

“Omi Omi! Ya made it!”

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Kuroo mouth to Osamu: _Omi Omi_?

Sakusa wears the same blank expression he always does, but, surprisingly, he’s not wearing a mask—Atsumu always thought that he wore one whenever he went out in public, so he wonders why today might be the exception.

Atsumu’s muscles complain when he stands back up onto his feet, suddenly hyper aware of five pairs of eyes staring at him and Sakusa.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sakusa says, though his voice doesn’t indicate that he _is_ sorry. “I went to the wrong gym at first.”

“Ah! Didja catch a glimpse of Korai-kun’s game?”

Sakusa shifts on his feet a bit and digs his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know, but I did see another game going on.”

“It was probably Korai’s. Oh! These are my friends.” Atsumu gestures vaguely at them, keenly aware of their stunned faces. Even Osamu—who’d already been debriefed earlier this morning—can’t help but stare. He makes eye contact with his brother, and Atsumu narrows his eyes ever so slightly. _Don’t ya be doin’ or sayin’ anythin’ weird now._

Osamu’s face says it all: _Fuck off, Tsumu_.

“That’s Gin, my friend from Inarizaki, and ya already probably know that’s my brother, Samu. And that’s Kuroo, Hinata, and Akaashi, whose butts we just beat. Guys, this is Sakusa Kiyoomi, otherwise known as Omi-kun, otherwise known as—”

“Just Sakusa is fine.” Sakusa throws Atsumu a dirty look, one that Atsumu can’t help but get a kick out of, and his friends murmur their greetings. The only one that acts remotely normal is Akaashi, but that’s only because he’s generally a quiet person. This is probably the quietest he’s ever seen his group of friends. Even Hinata, who’s known to be aggressively friendly to the point where not even Atsumu can get annoyed with him, blinks at Sakusa.

“Omi Omi, I’m gonna go get some water in the hallway. Join me?” Atsumu doesn’t wait, but tugs on the elbow of Sakusa’s hoodie, who complies and follows Atsumu out of the gym. Immediately, he can hear his friends engage in a fit of whispers and giggles, and a flush creeps up his neck to the tips of his ears.

Whatever. They can think what they wanna think and they can talk about whatever they wanna talk about, but Atsumu won’t let himself be dragged into the gossip—at least not with Sakusa present.

“Glad ya found the gym okay,” Atsumu says, releasing Sakusa’s elbow the moment they step out of the gym. Atsumu lets out a breath, and although his body has begun to cool down, his heart rate is as fast as ever. “Wasn’t sure if you were gonna show. I didn’t even notice ya.”

“I didn’t think you did.” Sakusa falls into step beside Atsumu as they head to the corner of the hallway, towards the water fountain that smelled a little like rusty metal—but Atsumu supposes that most of them did. He wonders how close was too close to be walking beside Sakusa, which is not really something he’s thought about before. “You seemed to be really into the game.”

“Huh? ‘Course I was. I’m not lettin’ a group of morons win a game in volleyball. That’s humiliatin’, ‘specially for someone who made it to nationals pretty much every tournament.”

“They weren’t bad, though. They must have played in nationals, too.”

Atsumu nods. He stops in front of the fountain and uncaps his water bottle to fill it with a steady stream of water that he has to resist the urge to chug right away. Sakusa stands to the side, and Atsumu tries not to let himself be bothered by the intensity of his gaze. “You prolly played against one of their teams, since Kuroo and Kaashi both went to high schools in Tokyo.”

“I see.”

“They’re good. Kaashi in particular is a sneaky sonuva gun that definitely has more than one brain in that pretty head of his. None of ‘em were ranked in the nation individually,” Atsumu continues, neglecting to add _like you_ , since he’s not sure if this will set him off, “but they’re fun to play against.”

“You seemed to have good teamwork with your team.” Sakusa clears his throat. “Especially your brother.”

Atsumu’s eyes light up. “Ya noticed?”

“Of course. Couldn’t not notice.”

Atsumu grins widely, feeling stupid for being so proud about it. “Samu pisses me off, but we sync up real nice together. Perks to growing’ up and doin’ everything together, I guess. Though when we were younger, he wanted to play basketball instead of soccer instead of volleyball. Too bad he’s a klutz and couldn’t kick the ball where he wanted it to go, so he wound up stuck in volleyball with me.”

“Hm.” Atsumu closes the lid of his bottle, and risks a glance in Sakusa’s direction. Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, but Sakusa quickly looks away.

Atsumu wishes he wouldn’t, although he’ll never say this out loud. Because he wants to be able to read what Sakusa’s thinking, the words that Sakusa isn’t saying, the feelings that Sakusa isn’t expressing. It isn’t quite validation that Atsumu’s looking for, but he’s looking for _something_. Sakusa doesn’t seem particularly unhappy to be here—Atsumu is sure he’d be able to tell if he were, even if they are still practically strangers for the time being—but it almost seems like Sakusa is closing himself off to anything more than talking about just Atsumu.

“So what didja think?” Atsumu blurts. He drinks slowly from his bottle and wipes at his forehead once more. The skin is cool to touch as his sweat has started to evaporate, but his cheeks feel warm. “Did my sets completely woo ya into wishin’ ya had a chance to hit ‘em just one time?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes but still doesn’t look at Atsumu. He stares, instead, through one of the doors that have been left slightly ajar—another recreational volleyball league game, probably the one that Korai’s in. “Your sets were really solid,” Sakusa says. While it lacks the shines-eyed quality that Hinata’s praise has, it makes Atsumu’s chest fluttered. “Your serves weren’t bad, either.”

“They’re not as good as they were in high school,” Atsumu admits. “I used to practice servin’ like crazy, but it can get kinda lonely doin’ that. I’d rather practice settin’ and spikin’ with Samu instead of doing serve practice by myself.”

“Really?”

Atsumu blinks. “Um, yeah. Why?”

Sakusa shrugs. “I think serve practice can be fun. Kind of like meditation. Helps clear the head.”

It’s the closest thing to a personal anecdote Atsumu has ever received from Sakusa, and he stares, a bit dumbfounded, and he only realizes his jaw is hanging open when he moves his mouth to talk. “Ya like serve practice?”

Sakusa shrugs again, tucking his chin under the neck of his hoodie. “It’s relaxing.”

Atsumu is about to say something, but he’s torn between commenting on Sakusa’s nasty serve in high school, or his reliable serve-receive then, too, or how only masochists would enjoy serve practice all by themselves over any other form of practice, or asking him if he still practices serves to this day, or asking Sakusa if he wants to join him and his friends for the beer and pizza and chicken nuggets that will be waiting for them after a proper cool down and much-needed showers.

But before Atsumu can decide what he’s about to ask or how he’s going to ask it, Sakusa clears his throat. “I should get going now, Miya. I have to study.”

“Oh.” Atsumu deflates a little, but he quickly covers it up with a charming smile. He doesn’t have time to feel disappointed, and he doesn’t really have the right, too, either. “Well, I hope it was worth yer time, at least. It’s not often we get spectators in our games. I appreciate ya showin’ face.”

“Thank you,” Sakusa says, “for inviting me.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Omi Omi. I’ll see ya later.”

Sakusa pauses. His eyes finally meet Atsumu’s, and Atsumu’s body warms underneath it. He sees more questions there than answers, and he desperately wants to decipher what is going on in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s mind.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “Later.”

Atsumu stares after Sakusa’s back as he heads out of the building. Sakusa’s back has definitely become a normal site for Atsumu to behold, and he wonders what Sakusa meant in his _thank you_ , whether it was polite or genuine or happy or a little sad. Or his _Later_ : does it have an expiration date? Was it ambiguous to account for the uncertainty that would lay beyond their inevitable end on Sunday?

Later, as it turns out, does come—that very same night.

* * *

Atsumu is three beers in and absolutely stuffed, laughing as Kuroo’s Overcooked character attempts to put out a fire, when his phone rings.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Are you available?

He tips his head back all the way to drain the rest of his beer, crushing the can in his hands. His nose wrinkles a bit—the beer has long since grown lukewarm, since he’s been sipping on it for the better part of the past thirty minutes—and he wipes his fingers on a napkin as best as he can before typing in a response.

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> yea what’s up?

“Atsumu-senpai, it’s your turn.” Hinata takes a huge bite of pizza, an onion dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Kuroo-san sucks. You should swap with him.”

“Don’t slander your senpai like that—”

“But it’s true,” Osamu responds. He kicks at Kuroo, who yelps as he attempts to swat away Osamu’s feet. “How the hell do ya manage to singlehandedly run MSBY when ya get stressed out over a stupid video game?”

“Hold up. MSBY is a _little_ less hectic than a kitchen that has literal moving appliances!”

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Wanna go on a walk?

Atsumu reads the text once, then twice. And then a third time. And maybe even a tenth time.

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> sure
> 
> meet in front of my apartment?
> 
> or i can come to yrs

“Count me out this round,” Atsumu says, eyes never once leaving his phone screen as the three dots pop up. Sakusa Kiyoomi is typing. He is typing a text message in a conversation _he_ imitated.

“Eh? Ya barely did jack shit yer first round, ya moron.”

“Leave me outta this. I think I got somethin’ to attend to.”

His friends can already guess what that _something_ is, especially after they spent about an hour grilling him about it earlier in the evening.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> I can meet outside of yours.
> 
> Be there in 5 minutes.

Atsumu sucks in a sharp breath. His fingers feel oily from the chicken and his mouth tastes stale from the beer, so five minutes is just enough time to freshen up and toss on clothes that are slightly more acceptable. As much as he wants to flaunt his lack of fucks, the sweatpants he’s currently wearing have an enormous hole in the crotch that Atsumu wouldn’t want to be caught dead wearing in public, especially by Sakusa. He stands up from his spot on the couch and announces, “I’m gonna go on an errand real quick. I’ll be back.”

Osamu, never missing a beat, narrows his eyes. By some miracle, he, Atsumu, Kuroo, and Hinata have all managed to squeeze on the couch, with Gin laying on his back on the floor. Akaashi had left before the beginning of their Overcooked marathon, but Atsumu’s apartment was still slightly too small to comfortably fit everyone in it.

“Where’re ya goin’, exactly?”

“Don’t worry about it, Samu,” Atsumu calls over his shoulders as he heads into the bathroom. As the door slams shut, he hears a faint, “Can ya believe that dipshit is tellin’ _me_ not to worry as if I haven’t been worryin’ about him for the past twenty years?”

Atsumu quickly flosses his teeth and gargles his mouth out with the most potent mouthwash he can find, once, twice, and then swishes water in his mouth. He scrubs his hand with soap and makes half an effort to do something about his wild hair—after showering, he hadn’t done any styling or blowdrying, so it looked probably about as good as it did on Monday when he first met Sakusa. Atsumu catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, wishing he didn’t notice the faint stubble that grows sporadically on his chin and along his jawline, wondering if he has enough time to quickly shave it off.

No. That’s stupid, and unnecessary, and yet Atsumu’s brain, apparently thinks it’s wise to fixate on this very small imperfection.

Before he can seriously consider it, Atsumu exits the bathroom and heads to his closet, searching for the best pair of sweatpants he can find, realizing that they’re all too old, too small, or too big for him, and tugging on a pair of jeans instead. He pulls on a light jacket and runs his fingers through his hair one more time, as if it’ll do anything to change the fact that it currently looks like a nest, and decides that that’s the best he’s going to do on a whim.

One last touch: a spritz of cologne. Because it’s not a date, this whole taking-a-walk thing, but it’s not _not_ a date, either.

What even counts on a date?

“To hell if I know,” Atsumu mutters.

He ignores the hoots and invasive questions from his friends and shoves his feet in his shoes, double checking to make sure he has his keys and phone and wallet just in case. Atsumu flips them off over his shoulder as the door to his apartment slams shut.

When Atsumu finally emerges from the complex, he sees Sakusa already at the entrance, staring at the flickering lampposts in the otherwise quiet street.

“Takin’ a study break?” Atsumu asks. Sakusa turns at the sound of his voice, still wearing the same clothes as earlier, but with an extra layer tossed on. It’s past ten now, and the air, though tolerable, has a gentle edge to it that nips at Atsumu’s nose and ears. “Here I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Usually I am,” Sakusa admits, “but I don’t have classes tomorrow, so I don’t need to go to bed that early tonight.”

“Ah.” Atsumu puts his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling shy. He starts to panic that maybe he smells too much like greasy chicken and pizza and cheap beer, or that his hair looks like a tumbleweed straight out of a Western film. His mind still possesses that hyperawareness of his body—a byproduct of a great workout tonight—and he hates that it makes him question every small detail about what he’s doing.

Sakusa doesn’t say anything, just looks at him. He’s not wearing a mask.

Atsumu clears his throat. “So, uh. Where’re ya tryna head towards, Omi Omi?”

“There’s a park nearby, if you want to go.”

“Ah. The one with the playground?”

Sakusa nods. “It’s a nice walk.”

“Alright. Lead the way.”

Atsumu has never been good at math, but he calculates the probability of this being a date: there is a precise fifty-fifty chance that this is a date. Fifty percent, ‘yes, it’s a date,’ because they’re technically supposed to be dating, and fifty percent, ‘no, it’s not a date,’ because they’re literally just walking.

Probability that Sakusa has a lot on his mind: eighty-twenty in favor of Sakusa being preoccupied with thoughts that he doesn’t divulge to Atsumu. Atsumu guesses this because of the way Sakusa’s brows are a touch more scrunched than usual; before, when Sakusa had frowned at Atsumu it had been clear that it was directed at him. But Sakusa’s furrowed brow is so much more subtle this time, just a bit of a shadow, one that seems to be an automatic response rather than a conscientious expression.

Probability that Atsumu is totally overthinking things: more than one hundred percent. Every time he thinks he should strike up a conversation, the words die on his throat, and the crawling self-conscious sensation of panic begins to elicit physical responses in his heart rate, the clamminess of his palms, the shortness of his breath.

It’s kind of refreshing, in its own way—it takes a lot to shut Atsumu up.

“Are ya done with studyin’ fer the night?” Atsumu finally breaks the silence between them after what feels like eons. They turn the corner onto a small residential street, one that Atsumu jogs through during the weekends whenever he manages to drag Osamu’s ass out of the house. Down the block, a familiar park comes into view. “Or is this a temporary break?”

“Probably,” Sakusa says. He keeps his eyes on the ground, and Atsumu feels free to look as much as he wants. The moon is nearly full tonight, hanging cozy and low in the sky, illuminating the smooth skin of Sakusa’s face.

“Everythin’ alright?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I dunno. Just checkin’.” Atsumu curses himself for asking in the first place; if Sakusa wanted to talk about it, he probably would’ve said something by now. He opts to test the waters with gentle prodding first. “Y’know. I was pretty surprised that ya texted me first, and that ya wanted to see if I wanted to go out on a walk with you.”

Sakusa’s brow pulls down low over his eyes as he finally turns his head to look at Atsumu. He doesn’t look angry or annoyed, although there _is_ an accusation written somewhere in the dip of his eyebrows. “Should I not have?”

“Nah, that’s not what I’m sayin’ at all. I’m just—didja wanna talk about something?”

Sakusa does that thing where he just stares at Atsumu, though he intermittently will glance forward in the direction they’re walking. The hum of cars in the distance sounds muted, as if they’re trapped in their own fishbowl of a world that makes Atsumu keenly aware that they are, in fact, alone. He pulls his sweatshirt tighter against his body.

“You looked really happy to be playing today.” Sakusa’s voice breaks through Atsumu’s anxieties, and that’s all it takes for him to snap out of whatever daze he’s caught in.

“‘Course I’m happy playin’ volleyball. Like I toldja—”

“I mean it’s different.” Their footsteps eat at the silence as Sakusa chooses his next words carefully. Atsumu raises an eyebrow but he waits for Sakusa to speak, not wanting for him to lose his train of thought. “From usual. People get happy about random things, but you looked…free.”

Atsumu blinks. “Huh? Are ya gettin’ existential on me now, Omi-kun?”

“I think that was the most honest smile I’ve seen from you yet.”

“I’m always honest!”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t _supposed_ to be.” Atsumu huffs, though the flush that creeps up his cheeks betrays him. “It wasn’t a joke.”

Sakusa’s barely-there smile ghosts the corners of his lips before dropping completely as he asks, “Why’d you quit?”

Atsumu blinks, slightly alarmed that Sakusa is asking. Not many people have bothered to ask, and the few that have didn’t seem to think Atsumu’s answers were interesting enough. “I guess…I didn’t think I needed it in college.” He kicks at some pebbles as they enter the park which is, as expected, deserted.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m happy what I’m doin’, just messin’ around with my friends, y’know?” Atsumu has asked himself this question multiple times since closing out his high school with consecutive wins wherever he went with his team. “So long as I can keep playin’, it doesn’t really matter to me what league I’m in. I’m just glad I get to play with Samu.”

“Hm.”

“And Gin,” he adds as an afterthought, slightly amused at Gin’s constant, _I’m here, too, ya jerks!_ commentary.

“You didn’t even want to try to play in college?”

Atsumu shrugs again. The hot coil of regret begins to creep back in, threatening to lodge itself in the center of Atsumu’s gut and stay there for weeks on end, an unwelcome visitor. Atsumu takes a deep breath and exhales those negative emotions that he’s starting to feel again—the same ones that led him on a binge of questionable drinking habits his first year of university.

It’s a simple fact that Atsumu gave up volleyball— _for real_ —when he turned down the athletic scholarships, when he turned down the national youth team, when he turned down offers of mentorship and specialized training from the best in the country. He’d convinced himself, as much as he could, that he did it because he wasn’t interested in it. Accolades didn’t matter. Awards were pretty trophies that collected dust on the shelf. His enjoyment for the sport couldn’t be based on things like that.

But the truth is—and only Atsumu knows this—is that he hated how Osamu didn’t get the same offers. He didn’t want to leave Osamu in the dust, nor did he want Osamu to leave him in the dust. They were a package deal, each other’s biggest support. In this way, Atsumu knows that they’re also each other’s biggest weakness.

“Guess part of me was afraid to tackle serious volleyball all by myself,” Atsumu admits. “My brother was my partner fer so long that having to go into the elite volleyball scene without him felt wrong.”

“That’s kind of silly.”

Atsumu stops in his tracks at that, not really expecting that response. He’d expected, maybe, a, _that’s sweet_ , or, _it’s nice that you guys are so close_ , or even a simple, _I get it_. Sakusa doesn’t notice at first, that Atsumu has stopped walking. “Oi! What does that mean?”

Sakusa glances over his shoulder. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant that you’re good enough to make it on your own. I don’t know why you have to depend on your brother to be confident in that, but…” Sakusa shrugs. “To each their own.”

Atsumu blinks before jogging to catch up with him—perhaps it's a side effect from growing up in Tokyo, but Sakusa walks _fast_. “Whoa. Was that a compliment?”

“Just an observation.”

“It was totally a compliment.”

“If it was, then I take it back.”

“Yer a weird one, Omi-kun. Ya know that, right?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Are ya ever gonna tell me _you_ quit volleyball? Mister top-three-ace-in-the-Japan.”

Sakusa slows down, just a bit, just enough for Atsumu to see a flickering of hesitation. A bit of annoyance tinged with displeasure and maybe even a little bit of sadness. Seeing it color Sakusa’s face offers Atsumu a small solace, that the bath of complex emotions surrounding volleyball aren’t completely solitary.

Sakusa takes a deep breath. He comes to a complete stop, right below one of the large willow trees. Atsumu pushes some of the branches out of the way and settles beside Sakusa, picking at some of the leaves. “Don’t tell me ya got a sob story as pathetic as mine.”

“Not as pathetic,” Sakusa confirms, voice nearly swallowed by the deafening silence of the evening. “But still a sob story. I tore my rotator cuff. It was stupid.” Sakusa looks away, his face hidden in shadows, and Atsumu has a pang of sympathy for him. “I overdid it with the training after the Spring Tournament a couple years back.”

“Oh.” What’s appropriate to say? Sakusa doesn’t seem like the type of person to like pity, and even if he were, Atsumu’s not sure that’s the response he’s looking for. “Didja need surgery?”

“Yeah. It was stupid. I’ve never felt like such a big idiot in my life.” Sakusa takes a measured breath. His next words have a ring of defeat. “I fucked myself over,.”

“Were ya supposed to play at Chiyoda?”

“They recruited Komori and me. And—Komori thought about not playing, either, when he found out I was unable to use my shoulder for months. I talked him out of it.” Sakusa turns his face back to Atsumu. His face doesn’t give anything away, but those dark eyes ignite a fire in Atsumu. “That’s why I assumed something like that happened between you and your brother.”

“Yer not too far off, I guess.” Atsumu sits down on the lonely bench under the tree and pats it, the cold metal coated with pollen under his palm. Sakusa stares at it, and after ten seconds of deliberation, resigns to join him. “Has yer shoulder healed yet?”

“Mostly. I can’t do most of the crazy stuff I used to be able to.” Sakusa leans against the back of the bench and closes his eyes. Atsumu swallows at the devastating site of his neck, long and lithe and ridiculously vulnerable before him. He wants to reach forward and place a single finger right at the junction of his chin and neck. “Watching you play just made me realize that I actually do miss it.”

“Are ya gettin’ all emotional on me, Omi-kun?”

“Shut up.”

“’Sokay. Me, too.” Atsumu musters up just enough courage to slide a hand on the crook of Sakusa’s elbow. Surprisingly, Sakusa doesn’t jerk away, nor does he yell at him. His eyes do track the movement—almost as if he’s worried Atsumu is about to slip poison into his pockets. “Yer always welcome to join us, if ya ever decide ya wanna give it a shot again.”

“Maybe,” Sakusa says, which isn’t a yes, but it isn’t a no. He opens his eyes once more and looks at Atsumu, but doesn’t elaborate.

Atsumu tries not to squirm too much under the gaze and fights the urge to look away or crack a joke to ruin the moment. But he refuses to look away first, and instead traces his gaze against the dip of Sakusa’s features from his forehead to his nose to his lips, across his jaw and into the soft curls that peak over the tips of his ears.

They don’t say anything, and Sakusa seems to be studying Atsumu as well, which makes Atsumu feel either like he’s a puzzle or an insect or some combination thereof. Sakusa is one gorgeous son of a bitch, and though he’s commented on how happy and free Atsumu looks on court, he thinks that maybe he feels the same way as he does, staring at Sakusa.

It’s an absurd thought, and Atsumu silently chastises himself for it.

But Atsumu has an even more ridiculous thought, one he has to swallow.

 _I want to kiss him_.

The realization stuns him into silence. Not that it should. It makes sense: Sakusa is a good-looking guy and Atsumu is a typical, hormonal young adult. But what _doesn’t_ make sense is that Atsumu wants to do it not from physical attraction but out of affection. Which is—quite frankly, it’s ridiculous. They barely even know each other.

“I gotta go back to my place,” Atsumu blurts, chickening out like the coward he is. “I gotta help Samu clean up the place—he gets pissed when I don’t contribute.”

Sakusa’s eyes finally leave him, and Atsumu avoids looking at them. He’s afraid of the possibilities of what he might find there. “Alright.”

“Are ya gonna stay out longer? Or do ya want me to walk you back to yer place?”

“I’m going to sit out here a little while longer, I think,” Sakusa says. He watches as Atsumu stands up and dusts off the back of his pants.

Atsumu rushes through his goodbye, stumbling over every three words, and mildly panics as he all but dashes down the pathway, through the willow branches, and safely towards home.

In an unusual turn of events, Atsumu is the one to walk away first, not Sakusa—and the entire time, he can feel Sakusa’s eyes boring thick holes into back, along with the sinking realization that Atsumu, despite his determination to avoid it, has started to get attached.

 _Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this all in the course of one day. it's eight thousand words.
> 
> yee haw ???


	5. friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aka. Atsumu is a walking gay disaster send tweet

a.m.

* * *

Atsumu wakes up without Sakusa’s ‘Good morning, Miya’ text message. He knows Sakusa said he’d be sleeping in today, but it mildly disappoints him all the same. Atsumu brushes that aside and sends the daily message instead, a selfie of him brushing his teeth with _mornin omi kun!_ scrawled below it.

He knows he’s treading a terrifying line, one that he recognized last night, but he can’t help it—he’s already in too deep. Osamu’s words from yesterday echoed in his mind: _Don’t do anything stupid, Tsumu_. Yeah. Too fucking late for that warning.

Atsumu hasn’t really had developed feelings for anyone, or even anything beyond physical attraction, since the last time he dated his first year. The relationship lasted only a mere few months before Atsumu broke it off. Osamu had given him an earful, back then, about respecting people’s feelings, but the girl had been too clingy and too jealous of all the time he spent doing other things.

Sakusa is the opposite, it seems, and Atsumu, again, wants to know if he’s like this with everyone he dates, or only the people that participate in the seven-days-with-Sakusa-Kiyoomi challenge. Atsumu may not be entitled to this info, but Sakusa has already divulged his volleyball backstory, and that’s more than Atsumu ever expected. So he decides to shoot his shot and aim high but expect the worst.

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> tonight there’s a party
> 
> wanna come with?

Atsumu loves parties. He thrives in the chaos, in the laughter, in the freedom nestled under the dark, damp air, cramped between bodies, shoes sticking against the floor coated with stale beer. It’s kind of gross, but in a cool, liberating way. He likes feeling mildly suffocated—not in a kinky way—and he likes how alcohol loosens up his joints and makes him dance. He enjoys being egged on by his seniors and he enjoys heckling his juniors. He likes flirting with people he’ll never see again and rediscovering events of the previous night when he wakes up mildly hungover.

It’s an adventure, in its own way, the way ordinary things can be adventurous. It’s also completely antithetical to what Sakusa would probably enjoy, but Atsumu presses his luck. According to rumors, Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t go to parties—but according to rumors, Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t smile, either, and Atsumu has seen that in action.

He carries on his morning as usual, catching the same bus and humming to himself as he picks up his breakfast. Sakusa doesn’t respond to his text message until later, much later, and when Atsumu clicks open his phone to read it, he has a brief moment of curiosity about why it took Sakusa nearly six hours to respond.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Maybe.

Atsumu clicks the call button, hearing the dial tone go off as he presses his phone to his ear. It’s a little loud in between hallways as he shuffles to his next lecture, but when the phone crackles to life with Sakusa’s voice, the noise fades away. “What do you want?”

“Is that yer typical greeting, Omi Omi?” Atsumu teases. “Ya don’t ever pick up with a regular ‘hello’?”

“It’s the middle of the school day.” Sakusa’s frown can be heard on the tone of his voice. “Why’re you calling me right now?”

“I’m on my way to class. I know yer not in any right now so I figured I’d catch up with ya.” The words, _since ya didn’t respond to my question fully_ are perched on his lips, but Atsumu squashes the urge down. “Have ya given more thought to my proposal?”

“The proposal about what?”

“About the party, Omi-kun.”

“Oh.” Sakusa pauses. Atsumu hears the faint whirring—either a laundry machine or a dishwasher—and turns up the volume to hear Sakusa over the chatter in the hallway. “I’ll think about it more.”

“What do I gotta do to convince ya to go with me? I can’t go alone, ya know. Someone might try and steal me away from ya.”

“I highly doubt that’s a concern you have to worry about.”

“Fer once it’d be nice if ya buffed me up instead of humblin’ me.” Atsumu breathes a laugh and leans against the wall of the corridor. He has about two minutes before needing to go into the lecture hall, and if he manages to convince Sakusa to join him to the party in the next two minutes, he thinks he’ll reward himself with a nice handle of liquor. “C’mon, Omi. When’s the last time ya hung out and let loose and had fun? Yer always so tense lookin’. I think it would be good for ya, and I don’t really wanna go without ya.”

There’s another pause at the other end of the line. He can visualize how Sakusa must look right now—mouth sloping into a pout, eyes squinting as he tries to weed out this conversation. “I don’t really go to parties.” Another pause. “I’m not very good at them.”

“Lucky for ya, but I’m _great_ at parties. I can teach ya a thing or two about having fun and which mixes of alcohol to avoid.” Atsumu’s stomach tenses at the memory of rum, moscato, and tequila making its way back up his throat. “Or ya don’t hafta drink if ya don’t wanna. But I’d love to go with ya, if yer willin’.”

Atsumu holds his breath, hoping beyond hope that he’s not giving himself away. That Sakusa isn’t able to hear the note of fragility and vulnerability that permeates his words, and that he’s coming across as overwhelmingly casual despite it feeling anything but.

“Let me think about it,” Sakusa says, as firm as before, but Atsumu thinks he might detect a smidge of hesitation. “I’ll let you know by dinner time.”

“Perfect. I gotta go to class now. Enjoy yer day off, Omi-kun.”

“Yeah. I will.” Sakusa clears his throat. “And, uh. Have a good day, Miya.”

Sakusa hangs up before Atsumu can respond back, which leaves Atsumu dumbfounded and staring at his phone. It’s like he keeps hearing these chinks in Sakusa’s cold exterior that makes their pseudo-relationship almost normal, piece by piece. He notices with every day that passes by. With every small smile and half-laugh that he earns. Every time Sakusa casually passes through Atsumu’s thoughts. The impending anxiety of the fact that it’s _Friday_ is enough to make Atsumu’s heart seize, and he takes a deep breath, willing it to relax.

There’s nothing to get worked up over. Atsumu’s not a lost cause at this point. He might be catching feelings, just a little, but it’s nothing serious, and nothing to panic about.

Atsumu is so wrapped up in this that he doesn’t realize he’s been standing in the hallway—steadily emptying out as students creep into classrooms—for several minutes. He jerks into motion to push his way into lecture, a hair late to class, but all he can hear is the silence in all the words Sakusa hasn’t said to him, and Atsumu wants, more than ever, to know what that silence is trying to say.

* * *

p.m.

* * *

Sakusa texts his answer to Atsumu—a curt _Sure, I’ll see you later_ that nearly has Atsumu whoop out loud in the middle of his statistics class—and Atsumu immediately takes a screenshot of it to send to all his friends. He even sends it to his brother, for good measure, to brag about how he’s able to work his charm to get even _Sakusa_ of all people to accompany him to a grungy, sort-of-disgusting party.

> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> ain’t ur bf a germaphobe?
> 
> ur cruel

Atsumu ignores him, too pleased with himself to be bothered, and texts Sakusa if he likes alcohol, and what kind he likes, and what he likes to drink with it, and what sort of snacks he’d want to eat with it. His rattles off his answers one by one, and Atsumu makes sure to swing by the liquor store on the way home.

He hadn’t really been planning on going to any parties this weekend, but it’s always an option when there isn’t anything else to do. Without a doubt, at least five of his friends will throw a party at one point during a weekend, and occasionally during the week. He wants, at minimum, to loosen up Sakusa to the point that he can at least tolerate being in a cramped apartment with loud and obnoxious college students. To do that, Atsumu decides, he’ll have to tone down the drinking, because the last thing he wants is for Sakusa to see him stumbling over his own two feet or to close off the night yakking in an off-color porcelain toilet bowl.

He texts Sakusa in between tidying up his apartment, telling him to come over whenever, and with every minute that passes by, Atsumu’s nerves amplify. Atsumu distracts himself by steam cleaning the floors and badgering Osamu to help him choose an outfit. Osamu wants to stick around and meet Sakusa, but Atsumu, once again, convinces him to stay the hell out of the apartment.

Osamu agrees, but Atsumu thinks it’s more out of pity than anything. He sees the pity flash across his twin brother’s eyes as he tries to gage how far deep Atsumu is, but Atsumu refuses to acknowledge it. He’s known Sakusa for five days, not five years, so it’s not like he’ll be walking away from this on Sunday with his heart splintering in his hands. At least, he hopes he doesn’t.

“I didn’t know what kinda sake ya wanted, so I got whatever my brother recommended,” Atsumu says upon opening the door for Sakusa once more. Sakusa shuffles in, pulling off his jacket as he kicks off his shoes. “He’s big on food and taste and shit like that. Refuses to drink bottom shelf stuff.”

Sakusa takes off his mask, and Atsumu notices a small quirk of his lips. “I’m not that picky.”

“I know ya aren’t.” Sakusa follows him to his living room, where Atsumu set up a makeshift coffee table with a storage bin that still had way too much junk in it. He raises an eyebrow.

“I know, I know. Coffee table’s outta order right now.”

“What happened to it?”

“Trust me. Ya don’t wanna know.” Because there’s really no sane explanation for how Kuroo’s drunken and supposed-Magic Mike striptease ended up with a broken table and mildly sprained ankle.

Atsumu collapses on the couch and runs his fingers through his hair, mildly self-conscious about his appearances. Because Sakusa looks good. He may not be a huge party goer, but the all-black ensemble does good things for him. Or—well, they’re doing things for Atsumu, and if Atsumu had seen him on the street, he wouldn’t guess that Sakusa was an ordinary college student. He’d guess that Sakusa was a Zara model.

The silence suffocates Atsumu a little as Sakusa glances around the apartment, eyes lingering on the neat stacks of bins and laundry hanging from the rack by the window. Atsumu takes a gratuitous glance at Sakusa’s face, lined by the sweep of his curls, and clears his throat. “I’m gonna be the responsible one tonight, Omi Omi. So ya don’t gotta worry about windin’ up dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Sakusa brings his attention back to Atsumu as he sits on the couch. Atsumu almost dies right there—Sakusa’s eyelashes have absolutely no fucking right to be as full as they are. “Why do I feel like this is an unusual offer from you?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Atsumu pours out a drink for them both, the glass from the sake bottle cold against his fingers. “First shot free. That’s the rules of the game?”

Sakusa frowns. “We’re playing a game?”

“‘Course we are. It’s…” Atsumu’s voice trails off as he glances at the clock on the wall. “It’s only ten, Omi-kun. The night is young.”

Sakusa sighs. “You’re lucky I slept in and took a nap today.”

“Aw, I’m flattered, Omi. Ya took a nap just to prepare yourself for spending time with me?” Atsumu grins smugly as Sakusa gives him a flat look, lips pressed into a solid, thin line. So Atsumu wants to place a smooch right on the crux of that line. Whatever. “I’m curious to see what yer tolerance is.”

“Most likely better than yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t seem like you’d have a good one.” Sakusa picks up the sake glass, eyes tracing the printed foxes on the side, and taps it lightly against Atsumu’s. Atsumu watches Sakusa tilt his head back as he pours the shot into his mouth, and traces the movement of the constriction of his throat as he swallows.

Atsumu gulps, then almost chokes on spit, then covers it up by taking his shot, too. He’ll be the responsible one tonight, but that doesn’t mean he won’t let himself loosen up, too. “Yer not wrong about that,” he admits, because it’s true. Atsumu isn’t a lightweight, necessarily, but he’s definitely not someone who can handle his liquor. Which is completely unfair, considering that Osamu drinks like a fucking tank.

“Rules of the game is ya either answer a question or drink,” Atsumu says as he fills up another glass. Sakusa frowns a bit, the moles lined above his eyebrows dipping a bit at the motion. Atsumu wants to reach out and press them like little buttons. “It’s time for a game of truth or drink. We take turns answerin’ a question. Ya either answer it or take a drink. Ya can’t pass or nothin’. Simple, right?”

Sakusa scrunches his nose. “Lame.”

“’S not lame.” Atsumu’s cheeks warm. It hadn’t been his idea. It was Osamu’s, and Atsumu, of course, agreed to go along with it, because he doesn’t know better.

“I’m pretty sure I saw this on in one of the bulletin newsletters.” Sakusa’s lips curl up. “It’s pretty lame, Miya.”

“Well, I still feel like I barely know ya.”

“Really?” Sakusa reaches for the shot glass, his fingers delicately lifting it to his lips. Atsumu is enraptured by his movements, easy and smooth, with an air gracefulness that he never possessed. He rotates the glass in his hands as he studies the artwork, and Atsumu studies him.

“Yer an enigma, Omi.”

“You’re one, too.” Sakusa sighs, but Atsumu doesn’t have time to ask a follow up question about what he means. “Okay. Do I get to start asking the questions?”

“Wait, I’m—”

“Do you act out because you want attention or is it completely impulsive?”

Atsumu blinks. “Alright. Not pullin’ punches, I see.”

Sakusa shrugs and leans against the couch, still cradling the cup in his hand. “I’ve been wondering about it.”

“It’s impulsive, I think,” Atsumu answers. He sees Sakusa stare at him, without much of a response, so he elaborates. “I mean, I grew up with an identical twin, y’know? So most of my childhood I spent tryna one-up him in everythin’. It prolly started out as wanting attention, but then when I got older, it became impulse, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sakusa tips his chin in Atsumu’s direction. Under the dim lights of Atsumu’s living room, he looks incredibly suave and relaxed, the antithesis of the first time Atsumu had met him in person. It’s incredible, how a mere five days can change someone that much.

“Why do ya always wear masks wherever ya go?”

“I’m paranoid about getting sick. Do you ever regret not continuing volleyball?”

Atsumu flinches a little, but presses on. “Sometimes, but Samu usually talks me out of it.” He finds himself wanting another drink, so he downs the glass in his hand before refilling it swiftly. “Do ya really think you’ll never play volleyball again?”

Sakusa pauses. He averts his gaze, and it’s the same somber expression he wore yesterday. Atsumu is suddenly struck with the realization that all those photos he’s seen before of Sakusa can never do _this_ Sakusa justice—the one that looks like an ordinary college boy, not some sort of urban legend. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I hope not.” Sakusa shifts in his seat and clears his throat, one leg folding over the other, ankle propped against the knee. “You talk about your brother a lot. You guys must be close.”

Atsumu grins a bit. “I think ya missed a question there, Omi-kun.”

“Shut up. I haven’t gotten to it.” Sakusa frowns, and Atsumu doesn’t miss a chance to ogle his impossibly pink links. “Is he your best friend?”

“You could say that, aIthough he’s a major pain in the ass most of the time. Always complainin’ about how I don’t listen to him when he goes around and does the same exact thing.” On the topic of Osamu—“Do ya think I’m hotter than my brother?”

“You guys are identical twins.”

“Yer avoidin’ the question.”

Sakusa throws Atsumu a withering look. “I’m not avoiding it. I literally can’t answer that, Miya. You have the same face, and…well, everything.”

“Yeah.” Atsumu grins. “But am I hotter?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes before tossing back his drink, and Atsumu opens his mouth to protest. But Sakusa seems to know how Atsumu will react before he even gets around to it, because Sakusa goes on to say, “Rules are rules, Miya. I took a shot. I get to skip the question.”

Atsumu grits his teeth in half-amusement, half-frustration—because a part of him wants to know the answer, and part of him is afraid of knowing. He pours another shot of sake for Sakusa, and Sakusa curses when it almost overflows. Atsumu flashes him that cheeky smirk, and it makes the creases between Sakusa’s brows deepen. “Fine. I guess it’s yer turn to ask a question now, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa carefully sips off the top layer of his glass, trying his hardest not to spill. “Do you compare yourself to your brother a lot?”

“Why the sudden interest in my brother?”

“You’re supposed to answer the question with an answer, not another question.”

“These rules are stupid.”

“ _You_ came up with them.”

“I’m stupid, too,” Atsumu says, and Sakusa snorts. A small bit of pride blossoms in Atsumu’s chest, or maybe it’s the first wave of sake pooling in his body. “Okay. I guess I do. It’s hard not to.”

“What about yourself do you compare to him?”

“Uh-uh. That’s two questions, Omi. Only one at a time. What about you and yer cousin? Komori? Are ya close to him? Like, best-friend close?”

Sakusa nods. “We’ve been close ever since we were kids. It’s not—I don’t think it’s on the same level as you and your brother, but it’s the closest thing I have to a sibling relationship.”

“That’s sweet, Omi.”

“Shut up.”

“Really, it is!”

Sakusa surprises Atsumu then, by taking another drink, placing the cup on the table as he runs his tongue along his lips to catch a drop of sake caught at the corner. Atsumu gets a glance of Sakusa’s tongue, pink and wet and disappearing almost as soon as it makes its appearance, and he has to summon all of his willpower to prevent his thoughts from straying too far.

If he’s being frank, here, it’s been an embarrassing long time since Atsumu has even remotely been given the option of thinking about someone’s tongue like that. In a way that he totally shouldn’t be thinking right now, but he’s a twenty-year-old college student, not a saint, so of course his mind wanders there; it’s instinct. It’s more surprising that it hasn’t happened already.

Because—to put it simply—Atsumu needs to get laid. Not even a full home-run, but at least something to tide him over until he can actually get the whole she-bang. He can only satisfy himself so much before his body itches for more, more in the form of Sakusa, sitting before him, looking like a delectable snack.

“How many questions is that now?” Sakusa asks. He pours himself a drink this time, and Atsumu tries hard not to stare at his his arms too much, forcing himself to peel his gaze away and shove away unholy thoughts of those arms shoving him against a wall in a way that’s not violent. “And how many questions are you going to make me go until?”

“Until one of us caves by refusing to answer a question _and_ drink.” Sakusa shoots him a look that says, _are you trying to kill me?_ Or maybe it says, _are you trying to kill yourself_? “Or until we’re out of alcohol. I only have two bottles.” Atsumu taps the edge of his glass against Sakusa’s and tosses the shot back. “Look, I just saved ya from havin’ to take a drink. Also, those definitely counted as yer questions. Why do ya date around like that?”

Sakusa stills. Atsumu hasn’t heckled him about the whole dating-for-seven-days ordeal since the first time he brought it up, which is surprising. It turns out Atsumu still has more self-restraint than he and others give him credit for. Sakusa’s lips come together in a grim, hard line, and he drains his glass before Atsumu can pressure him to answer.

“Why’d you ask _me_ out?” Sakusa asks. He reaches for a glass of water that Atsumu set out and takes a steady pull.

In response, Atsumu tosses his glass back, mostly because how the fuck is he supposed to answer that? _Because I wanted to spite you. Because I wanted to know what kind of narcissist thinks himself so great that he can fuck around with people’s feelings. Because I thought it would be a good story to tell at future parties._ All of those reasons may have been why Atsumu initially asked Sakusa out, but Atsumu has come to accept the fact that he knows damn well that there are other reasons why he’s continuing to stay.

It’s not like Sakusa’s asking him to. He _wants_ to.

How pathetic.

“Have ya ever had sex before?”

Sakusa chokes on his water and masks it with a cough, and Atsumu bursts out into laughter. He’d said it as a joke, mostly, but is thrilled when Sakusa’s face turns beet red. “You can’t just—”

“Ya gotta answer it, Omi-kun. Those are the rules.” Atsumu cackles as Sakusa continues to shoot him a death glare. “No shame if ya did, no shame if ya didn’t. Just curious to know what kinda stuff you’ve been up to.”

“You’re crude.”

“And yer avoidin’.”

Sakusa covers his eyes with one hand, fingers coming together to pinch the bridge of his nose. He sighs in a way that’s best described as ‘tired.’ The grin nestled on Atsumu’s face refuses to drop from his cheeks. “Yes, Miya,” he says, blunt as ever. “I have.”

“Oh, cool. Me, too.” Atsumu’s face heats when he realizes that, maybe, just maybe, this could come across as a pickup line. It’s not _not_ a pickup line, because Atsumu is, of course, a horny young adult with way too much free time on his hands. But it’s definitely not a pickup line. Not anything of that sort.

“I don’t recall asking you that question.”

“Consider it one of my freebies.” Atsumu takes a couple of quiet, deep breaths to slow down the erratic movements of his heart thrumming in his ribcage. So this is what it’s like to crush on someone? Getting all stupid happy about pressing their buttons? He’s never experienced a true crush before, and he thinks this might be an honest-to-god real one. Scary. “Alright, Omi Omi. Yer up. Wadaya got for me?”

Sakusa leans back once more, slotting his head right at the space on the top of the couch cushion and leaning against the wall. His shoulders sag down, so unlike that uptight posture Atsumu has grown accustomed to associating with him. He suppresses the urge to reach forward and spread his fingers across Sakusa’s welcoming, wide chest, wide enough to rest his head against, like an inviting bed after a long, exhausting day.

“I’m running out of questions,” Sakusa mumbles. His eyes are still closed, lashes impossibly long and a little crooked at the corners. “What now?”

“It doesn’t hafta be high stakes,” Atsumu responds. He shifts his positioning a bit, leaning his back against the arm rest and pulling his legs onto the couch, hugging his knees to his chest. “Whatever ya wanna know.”

After another moment’s silence—during which Atsumu counts three lips-licking from Sakusa’s mouth—Sakusa skas, “If you could be any other position on a volleyball team, what would it be?”

“Easy. I’d be the pinch server. Do ya like casually datin’ the way ya do?”

Sakusa sighs and opens his eyes. He reaches for his glass. A gentle flush has spread across his cheeks and crept down his neck. Atsumu notices the pink color under the collar of Sakusa’s shirt, and he gulps.

Sakusa drinks the sake and avoids the question, once again. Atsumu is absolutely _dying_ to know why he’s turned into such a playboy, since the past week thus far has taught him that Sakusa is the exact opposite of a playboy. Cold, distant, a little reserved, and straightforward—he doesn’t seem to be playing with anyone’s feelings, and Sakusa certainly doesn’t seem like he’s actually benefitting from this arrangement. So why?

“Wait—”

“What did you hear about me before we ever interacted?” Sakusa’s eyes shift towards Atsumu, serious and unwavering, as always. Atsumu swallows, heart rate picking up, and he thinks that it’s completely unfair that Sakusa has this effect on him.

“I heard that ya get around a lot, of course.” Atsumu raises an eyebrow, trying to play off that effortless, easygoing persona that he so desperately wants to have. “I’ve heard about ya. Practically everyone has. But anything I heard about ya just left me with more questions than knowledge.”

Sakusa doesn’t glance away. He has the same focus Atsumu gets on the court, and suddenly, Atsumu is thrown back to high school, watching that same gaze as he stood across the net and targeted Sakusa in order to get a service ace. It was infuriating at the time—he expected Sakusa to shank the ball, and when his spike serves weren’t working, he’d switched to jump floaters. But _nothing_ worked for Sakusa—he’d been invincible.

“Didja remember me from our game?” Atsumu asks.

Sakusa laughs a bit, though it’s more of an exhale than anything, and Atsumu has to look away in order to prevent himself from spontaneously combusting right then and there. “Hard not to remember the guy with the dry, over-bleached hair that looks straight out of an anime.”

“Shut yer trap.”

“I remember you and your brother. You both terrified our team.” Atsumu turns to Sakusa, surprised to hear this, but Sakusa speaks with a matter-of-fact tone that leaves no room for doubt. “Everyone knew about you two, but we didn’t really know what to expect until we were all on the court together...” Sakusa adjusts his position on the couch so his torso rotates, and although he doesn’t bring his legs on the couch like Atsumu does, he rests one arm on the back of the couch. He looks good this way, Atsumu decides: open and relaxed and strangely intimate.

It’s infuriatingly attractive.

“I went into the game thinking there was no way in hell I’d ever let you score a service ace off of me.”

Atsumu snorts. “I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” Sakusa’s eyes smolder with intensity. Atsumu has given and received that kind of look to, but not like this. He’s used to the eyes of someone who had three drinks too many, or someone who’s horny and lonely and bored and wants an easy fuck. He’s not used to the look that Sakusa gives him now. It’s more of a challenge than a desire and demands Atsumu’s full attention, demands the hairs on the back of his neck to stand straight up. Atsumu swallows thickly.

He and Sakusa stare at one another. Sakusa’s lips are pressed in a neutral line. Atsumu wants to reach forward and touch that jaw and feel his fingers curl around the ridiculously sharp angle. Instead, he opts for the coward’s way out, and clears his throat. “Yer turn, Omi-kun.”

“Do you call me stupid nicknames to annoy me or because that’s just part of your personality?”

Atsumu barks out a laugh, and whatever tension—sexual or otherwise—dissipates. “I call everyone nicknames,” he admits. “It started with just me and my brother calling each other Samu and Tsumu. I guess it kinda stuck around now.”

“So there’s no way you’ll stop calling me that.”

“Hell nah. It’s part of my personality. Love it or leave it.”

Sakusa mumbles something that sounds something suspiciously like _leave it_ , and maybe it’s a joke, but maybe it’s not. Or maybe he says _love it_ , and Atsumu is, once again, over thinking.

Atsumu eyes the bottle of sake, almost empty now, and he wants to put it aside and ask Sakusa the questions that _really_ matter. He wants to ask Sakusa what he really thinks about whatever this ‘thing’ is that they’re doing, and he wants to ask Sakusa why he agreed to it in the first place. Atsumu isn’t a genius, but he’s not an idiot, either, and although he struggles to read between the lines, at the very least, he knows that there’s something there.

But above all things, Atsumu wants to ask Sakusa two questions that have possibly disastrous and gay consequences: he wants to ask Sakusa if he’d let Atsumu kiss him.

He wants to ask if Sakusa wants to kiss him.

Atsumu has accepted it by now—yeah, he wants to kiss Sakusa. So what? So does over half of his university. He’s not special. Atsumu has always known that. Sakusa Kiyoomi is a unique guy, and he’s special. But not Miya Atsumu. Atsumu is just another notch on his belt, another diary entry, one week out of fifty-two in a year.

He’s not special.

“You seem like you’re out of questions.” Sakusa’s words break the silence, but his tone is light, easy, casual. Which is great, because Atsumu can totally do casual, he’s the definition of casual, and he can—for once—reign in these wild, chaotic swarms of thought that refuse to stay silent. “So maybe it’s a sign we can just drink in peace.”

Atsumu faux-gasps, pushing aside his stream of consciousness, hugging onto the olive branch Sakusa extended to him. “Well, we got another bottle to go, ya know. Peace isn’t an option when yer gonna have to do most of the drinking.

At this, Sakusa’s nose wrinkles, but he tosses back another drink, no further commentary—just Atsumu gazing at the delicate, gorgeous boy before him and wondering how the hell he’s going to get through the night without doing something colossally and irreversibly stupid.

* * *

Atsumu’s closest friends don’t party too much, or, at least, they don’t like hosting parties. Tonight, he decides that he and Sakusa are going to go to one party where he knows he’ll be safe from over-rambunctious upperclassmen and over-ambitious underclassmen.

Atsumu drags Sakusa by the wrist into the apartment, which could better be described as a monkey house. Sakusa showcases minimal resistance, opting to keep up the pace with Atsumu to avoid being swallowed by the crowd.

_Ya ever been to parties in college, Omi?_

_I don’t like them._

_Ya think I could change yer mind?_

Sakusa’s eyes glinting in his apartment. _I’d like to see you try_.

Was it a flirtatious remark? It was a flirtatious remark. Had to have been. Atsumu should’ve really stopped after the first bottle, but there’s no way Atsumu would have survived the subsequent hourwithout it.

In the end, no, Atsumu doesn’t ask him if he wants to kiss him. And Atsumu doesn’t try to kiss him, either. But it’s a tempting prospect, one that wraps itself around Atsumu’s ankle and sinking its claws deep into his chest.

 _Easy_ , Atsumu thinks to himself. Except nothing about this is fucking easy.

In other news, Matsukawa’s apartment is thick with sweat, heavy with the smell of cheep, lukewarm beer and the sting of vodka. It doesn’t overflow the same way Terushima’s parties often do, and there’s enough airflow through the open windows that Atsumu doesn’t have to worry about his gray shirt becoming drenched in sweat the moment he walks in through the doors.

Atsumu tugs Sakusa closer, who stumbles a bit as he trips over the feet of someone lounging on the floor, leaning against the body of another inebriated person. He’d told Sakusa on the way over that he could just tell him when he’s ready to leave, and judging by the deep scowl etched into Sakusa’s cheeks and down his chin, Atsumu guesses he’ll be ready to leave soon.

But they’ve just arrived, and the sake has dulled Atsumu’s senses such that he doesn’t feel over stimulated or hyperaware of anything going around him. It’s like entering a jungle, and Atsumu almost feels like a tour guide.

It doesn’t take long to find Matsukawa, who’s manning the makeshift bar counterthat’s just two tables stacked on top of one another. Atsumu met him last year, when they played against one another in Atsumu’s first three-on-three. The one that he, Osamu, and Gin had lost because of their incurable hangovers. Matsukawa, Hanamaki, and Iwaizumi made a lethal team, and they easily crushed Atsumu’s team without even breaking a sweat.

But Atsumu hadn’t lost to them since. And he’d earned their respect, and, in turn, an open invite to whatever batshit party Matsukawa decides to host for some bogus reason. This weekend, the bogus reason is: “It’s my half-birthday week, Atsumu. Ya hafta take a shot in order to celebrate it.”

“Wasn’t yer birthday, like, three months ago?”

“Okay. Fine. It’s my half-of-a-half birthday.” Matsukawa towers over most of the people here, his unruly hair even more frizzy than usual. In his hand is a plastic handle of painfully clear liquid, and although Atsumu isn’t one to turn down a free drink, his stomach lurches at the memory of the last time he drank any of Matsukawa’s liquor.

Matsukawa’s eyes flicker to Sakusa, who stands hunched right behind Atsumu, weight shifting on his heels, but doesn’t say anything. As much of a troll this guy could be, Atsumu knew bringing Sakusa here would be the right choice—Matsukawa wouldn’t question anything; he’s here for a good time and for good vibes. Unlike Sakusa, who’s here for—who knows why he’s here.

“That would be a quarter.”

“Whatever. Fuck math. Take a swig.”

“I’m not—”

“Take a swig. Take a swig,” Matsukawa chants, which, of course, summons Hanamaki to egg him on.

Atsumu rolls his eyes but lets go of Sakusa’s wrist to get down on his knees, as he’s accustomed to. Because he’s an underclassmen and Matsukawa and Hanamaki are demons, and because he knows better than to argue.

Hanamaki hollers as Matsukawa tips the atrocious bottle over, and something that tastes like lighter fluid spills into Atsumu’s mouth. It doesn’t mix well with the sweet taste of sake, not at all, and Atsumu coughs after swallowing. “God, that’s fuckin’ terrible. What is that, bleach?”

“Yes,” Hanamaki deadpans. He shifts his shoulder to let someone pass around him. He’s wearing a teal blue bucket hat and his shirt has a dark stain that smells suspiciously like Miller Lite. “Where’s your brother?”

“Doin’ domestic shit. Y’know how it is with him.” Hanamaki notices Atsumu gag again as his stomach tries to reject the foreign liquid, and hands him a cup of more clear liquid. Atsumu gives him a withering look. “It’s water. I swear.”

Atsumu drinks from the cup, relieved that it _is_ water, and satisfied that it quells his body’s demand for water as of this instant. Matsukawa laughs—the sound swallowed up but the thrumming of bass music and an overwhelming amount of side conversations—as Atsumu gets back to his feet. Sakusa hasn’t said a word, although Atsumu can notice his eyes observing the landscape with the same serious temperament that he always has.

“Enjoy yourself tonight,” Matsukawa says. He makes a pointed tilt of his chin towards Sakusa, and Atsumu’s face warms even more than it had before. Atsumu is painfully aware of the fact that his right hand is currently on fire after holding onto Sakusa’s delicate skin. “You need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Yer easy to spot. Chat in a bit.” Atsumu throws a curt peace sign right as a familiar face materializes beside him.

“Sakusa!”

Atsumu turns at the sound, and sees Komori Motoya. He looks as bright and easy as when they first met. Atsumu hadn’t been aware that student athletes could even go out drinking, let alone infiltrate a pseudo-fraternity party that. But Komori doesn’t look particularly flushed are relaxed—just carefree, just as he had when Atsumu first met him. It’s impressive, actually, that Komori can be so easy going even despite the overwhelming environment of degenerate university students with no sense of self control.

“Hi,” Sakusa says. His arms are crossed over his chest, but Atsumu notices that his shoulders drop, microscopically, when Komori approaches them. Atsumu thinks about their time together, and how Sakusa had mentioned Komori is the closest thing to a brother that he has—and Atsumu understands, just a little, just what that might mean for Sakusa.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show! Looks like Miya somehow convinced you.” Komori’s eyes crinkle as he waves, and Atsumu nods. “Good going. I don’t remember the last time Sakusa came to a party that I invited him to.”

“How do ya know Matsukawa?” Atsumu asks, because he can totally make small talk. Casual small talk that overrides the non-casual-ness of whatever stirs in Atsumu’s chest every time he glances over at Sakusa. Yeah. Casual. He can do casual.

“His friend is on my team,” Komori says. He wears a button down, rolled up at the sleeves, and his hair is pushed back and away from the crown of his head. Atsumu is amused by the fact that Komori and Sakusa are cousins—the look nothing alike. “Sakusa, Hoshiumi’s here. Have you said hi yet?”

Sakusa sighs with his body; Atsumu can’t hear it, but he sees it. “No. I haven’t.”

“C’mon, you have to greet him. He’ll be butthurt if you don’t.”

“But—” Sakusa glances at Atsumu.

Atsumu waves him off. “Don’t worry about it, Omi. I got my people here, too. I’ll catch up with ya in a bit after, alright?”

Sakusa glances at him, and there’s the slightest hesitation that makes Atsumu chest puff up with the smallest bit of pride.

“Okay,” Sakusa says. “Keep your phone on you.”

“It always is.” Atsumu watches as Sakusa stiffens and follows Komori, clearly unpleased that he has to go along with him—or maybe he’s displeased that he has to leave Atsumu. No, it can’t be that. Sakusa isn’t bothered by things like that. Atsumu is just a little drunk and completely imagining it.

* * *

The thing Atsumu doesn’t like about parties—and the things that he tries to avoid—is when he starts to become mopey and dramatic because of alcohol.

 _Fuck_. He should’ve known this would happen.

He’s in the middle of a game of pong when he suddenly realizes it’s been a while since he last checked his phone—ten minutes or ten hours, who knows—but as he excuses himself by egging Hanamaki on to take his place. It doesn’t take much, and Atsumu steps aside to check his messages. There are no new ones from Sakusa.

Atsumu sighs and uses the hem of his shirt to dab at the perspiration on his forehead. Because it’s fucking hot in here, maybe from the obscene number of bodies crowding the dance floor, or maybe it’s from his nerves. Talk about lame.

And when he turns into the living room, where Sakusa is wedged between Komori and some other tall, dark-haired guy he’s never met before, Atsumu feels the beginning of an existential crisis begin to sink in.

Atsumu decides to call in his reinforcements.

> **To** : Miya Osamu
> 
> hey loser

Osamu is probably lounging around at Suna’s place doing nothing, so he responds right away. Atsumu’s lips curl up in amusement. Osamu used to be the first one in a party and the last one out.

> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> what do u want. i’m busy
> 
> **To** : Miya Osamu
> 
> i’m going through a crisis
> 
> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> ur always going through a crisis
> 
> what do u want

Atsumu hesitates, just for a moment. He glances at Sakusa, who hasn’t noticed him, who isn’t wound up tight but he’s guarded, with the faintest smidge of rigidity in his shoulders and polite smiles as Komori includes him with his friends.

Atsumu sips on his water and takes a deep breath.

> **To** : Miya Osamu
> 
> i think i like omi
> 
> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> no shit

Why does he even bother? Osamu hasn’t said anything halfway decent in his life. Atsumu should've stepped on his grubby mouth in the womb.

> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> who cares
> 
> go confess ur gross feelings or whatever
> 
> maybe he’ll stay for u
> 
> **To** : Miya Osamu
> 
> i can’t just do that
> 
> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> sure you can
> 
> ur fat mouth already acts out everyday of the week
> 
> how is this any different

This is true.

> **To** : Miya Osamu
> 
> u don’t get it
> 
> it’s already friday
> 
> i fcked up samu
> 
> this was a MISTAKE
> 
> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> ur lame
> 
> who cares
> 
> it’s only friday
> 
> ps yer the mistake

“Miya?” Atsumu looks up only to find Sakusa towering over him. His meticulous curls have untwisted a bit, a bit mussed, and Sakusa’s previous pinched expression of regret has melted. He places one hand on his hip. It’s a movement that makes Atsumu want to die right there. Because, well…it’s sexy. And Atsumu hates that he thinks it’s sexy. “Are you doing alright?”

“I’m fine.” Atsumu texts a quick response, _i was born first, not u, and that means ur the one mom and dad didn’t want_. He slides his phone into his pocket and moves to stand up, but the room shifts a little under his feet and he has to reach out a hand against the wall for support. Yeah. He’s lame. “What can I do for ya, Omi Omi?”

Sakusa shifts on his feet a bit. The gentle flush from the sake that blossomed under his skin couldn’t be seen in the dim lights, but Atsumu can read an entire constellation in his eyes. A little sly and knowing. “I could use some fresh air,” Sakusa admits. He’s so quiet against the noisy backdrop that Atsumu has to lean in, his hair brushing against Sakusa’s chin to get a taste of his voice.

Surprising enough, Sakusa does not pull away.

“Do you want to go for a short walk?”

“Whatever ya want.” Atsumu straightens again, pushing his bangs off his forehead, and raises an eyebrow. “Ya doin’ okay, Omi? Need water or anything?”

“I had some already.” Sakusa pauses. “Thank you.”

Atsumu wants to reach for his hand. He follows Sakusa, two steps behind him. It would be so _easy_ , to take his hand in his, to intertwine their fingers together. But nothing about this is easy.

> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> just get him in a quiet place and kiss him or something
> 
> quit mopin in ur gay crisis
> 
> u are SO not slick

Atsumu scowls, typing back, _ur idea is dumb bye_ , but not without the passing thought that every moment he spends not doing anything is another moment wasted. As they turn the corner and pass under the warm glow of street lamps, Atsumu hears Osamu's warning from yesterday: _don't do anything stupid, Tsumu_.

And he knows one thing and one thing only: he is about to do something stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD I miss college so much. And partying. And just...shenanigans. 
> 
> Next chapter will pick up from this spot. the "a.m" shall refer to past midnight so sorry I cut off a bit abruptly on a cliffhanger. Can't believe this only has two more chapters left. I REFUSE to let this hit 40k. But...we'll see whatever the fuck happens lmfao.


	6. saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gay

a.m.

* * *

Atsumu welcomes fresh air. He lines his steps as carefully as he can while Sakusa leads the way. He takes deep breaths, willing his eyesight to straighten. Whatever disgusting alcohol Matsukawa gave him makes a round through his body, leaving him feeling like his brain has taken a dive off the deep end.

Sakusa keeps his face fixed forwards, gaze slightly lowered, shoulders hunched, and Atsumu wants to press his palm into the curve of his spine. Because slouching that much can’t possibly be good for his back. But he doesn’t—of _course_ he doesn’t—and instead trods along without a word as Sakusa ambles down the sidewalk.

“Ya feelin’ okay, Omi?” Atsumu stretches his arms and folds them over his head. He plays it off as if he hadn’t been going through yet another crisis two minutes ago. Cool, casual, nonchalant—those are things he can totally pull off. “Yer pretty quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“I guess so.”

It’s late, now, later than Sakusa’s probably used to seeing, and a twinge of guilt courses through Atsumu’s veins when he considers this. If it were anyone else, Atsumu would be more than happy to invite them over to his place, but for some reason, it doesn’t seem to fit with Sakusa, which is ironic—considering that Sakusa is the playboy here, _not_ Atsumu. 

Atsumu curses to himself. This _so_ isn’t fair.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Sakusa breaks the silence. Atsumu isn’t sure what to make of his tone or any word that he says. Under the dim street lamps, there’s a faintest tinge of pink—a flush act betrays his perceived sobriety. 

“Yeah. Ya missed me totally gettin’ my ass whooped in pong.”

“I did pass by your game once. When I went to the bathroom.”

Atsumu chews his lip. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Sakusa’s eyes flicker over before he promptly looks away again. The night air buzzes with mosquitos, louder than the stifled echoes of college party noise pollution. “You were definitely getting your ass kicked.”

“I was makin’ a comeback!”

“Shotgunning a beer was your method for making a comeback?”

“That was the _penalty_.” Sakusa had been watching him? Atsumu hadn’t even noticed. Much like when he gets too sucked into a volleyball match, he supposed beer pong was on the same level of competition in his eyes. “Maybe ya can join me when we get back. You any good at beer pong, Omi-kun?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“C’mon. You gotta have a nasty aim, from all those crazy serves ya used to have.”

Sakusa snorts. “Aiming a volleyball across a court is a little different from throwing a ping pong into a plastic cup.”

Atsumu points a finger at Sakusa, who glares at said finger. It’s incredible how Sakusa can manage to communicate with only his eyes: _don’t fucking point to me_. “On the contrary. Spatial awareness from somethin’ like volleyball extends to pong. I’ve seen it with m’own two eyes, Omi Omi.”

“Then the reason you suck at pong is…”

“Because I’m one of those damn bastards cursed to live a life of sin without any ability to win in beer pong.” Atsumu laughs, a laugh that widens upon catching a glimpse of Sakusa’s pout, clearly unsatisfied with his explanation. His laughter dies down, and Atsumu glances around the sidewalk. If Sakusa were around more, he’d probably take walks at night. Even if it’s past midnight and his vision still swims a little bit due to alcohol. Atsumu’s used to spending most of the nights inside, hanging out with his friends—not walking around outdoors.

“But didja have a good time?” Atsumu asks. “I know parties ain’t really yer scene.”

“Yes.” Sakusa clears his throat. “I did—I mean, I’m enjoying myself. It was nice to see Komori having fun.”

“Ya really never come out with him when he goes?”

“No.”

“Even if there’s, like, a special occasion?”

“A special occasion like what, Miya? A half-of-a-half birthday?”

He’s got a point. Atsumu’s toe catches on the sidewalk and he stumbles a bit, regaining his footing with one heavy step. He curses under his breath, hating that he doesn’t even look sort of cool in front of this guy that his incoherent, drunken brain cannot help but think about. “Yeah. Events like that.”

“They’re not my thing, so…no.”

 _Then why didja say yes_? Atsumu wants to ask.

Instead, Atsumu thinks about his texts with Osamu. Emerging from an existential crisis is never a fun thing, but this time, it’s a little painful. Because it’s Saturday now. It’s no longer Friday, and Atsumu’s unconditional time with Sakusa is ticking away into oblivion.

“Ya never answered my question, ya know,” Atsumu says, stretching up his arms to hopefully dry off whatever lingering stench of soju and sweat clung to every surface of his skin and his clothes. “Earlier.”

Sakusa sighs; he doesn’t sound annoyed, but he certainly sounds tired. “No, Miya. I’m not going to tell you which out of you and your brother is the more attractive one.”

Atsumu tugs on Sakusa’s arm. Sakusa recoils for a split second—just the quickest flash of his nose scrunching and eyebrows twitching. “No, I’m talkin’ about yer whole deal with datin’. I feel like, as yer boyfriend, I’m entitled to a little bit of explanation that comes with stuff like this.” Atsumu pulls him along.

Sakusa allows Atsumu to guide him. Atsumu’s grip tightens automatically, and he has to make the conscientious decision to _not_ hold Sakusa’s arm in a chokehold. It’s reflex, really, and a byproduct of growing up with an extremely physical twin brother.

Sakusa is quiet long enough that Atsumu thinks maybe this will be where he receives a breakthrough. When he withdraws his arm as they slow down on the sidewalk, he replies with another question. “What do _you_ think? As someone who’s heard about me before we ever met.”

“The official rumor?” Atsumu asks. “Or the non-official, conspiracy-theorist one?”

“Both.”

“Hm.” Atsumu considers this. There are a lot of urban legends attributed to Sakusa Kiyoomi, but it doesn’t seem like Sakusa has time for that. Nor does it seem he cares. “Lotta people seem to think ya got attachment issues or some shit. Maybe daddy issues. Or maybe ya just don’t like commitment.”

“I see.” Sakusa’s face, stoic, as usual. The touch of warmth that glowed his eyes before had disappeared. “That’s the conspiracy theorist one?”

“No, those would be some variation of what most people think about ya. But I bet ya already know that, right?” Sakusa glances away, and Atsumu knows he’s hit the mark. “Other people think ya got some villain origin story, ya know. Ya went through a bad break up, got dumped, got cheated on—things of that sort, and so ya hate woman and wanna execute a very particular and weird way of gettin’ revenge on ‘em.” Atsumu waits long enough for a squawk of hesitation, so when he doesn’t receive it, he moves on in the conversation.

Sakusa’s silent. Atsumu can’t help but continually check to make sure he hasn’t said anything that pissed him off, or said anything out of line—even if those really _are_ rumors people might gossip about, that doesn’t mean it’s fun to hear—but Sakusa has that same neutral expression. No, not neutral: there’s a frown. “I see.”

“Any grain of truth to ‘em?”

“To any of those rumors?”

Sakusa laughs, kind of. It’s a burst of air that speaks more than words could; Atsumu detects hints of frustration, amusement, and sarcasm rolled into that one breath of air. “Depends on what you consider truth.”

Atsumu tilts his head. “Huh?”

Sakusa shrugs. _This son of a bitch really is that stubborn, ain’t he?_ Atsumu sighs internally. Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s giving him more generosity than usual, but Atsumu doesn’t demand answers. He’s impressed with himself for not demanding anything except gentle, genuine questions that he merely hopes Sakusa will answer. “Well. Wanna talk about it?”

“Huh?” Sakusa blinks. For the first time since they left Matsukawa’s party, his head is pulled out of the clouds and into his feet. “About—”

“I dunno. Whatever’s buggin’ ya. If it’s related to yer whole dating schtick. I’m shit at givin’ advice, apparently, but I can listen.” Atsumu’s hand moves on his own, reaching forward before Atsumu realizes what he’s even doing.

Judging by the way Sakusa’s eyes immediately go to Atsumu’s outstretched hand and don’t move on from it, he knows, too. Atsumu freezes, mid-grab, fingertips mere millimeters from Sakusa’s hand.

They stay like that for an impossibly long five seconds before Atsumu clears his throat. “Uh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

Before he can say anything, Sakusa heaves a small sigh and takes Atsumu’s hand in his. He doesn’t intertwine their fingers together, so although Atsumu’s skin erupts in an obnoxious fit of tingles, the hold is awkward, a little weird. He can’t remember the last time he held someone’s hand like this, in an almost juvenile manner.

But he also can’t remember the last time he held someone’s hand that made him feel like… _this_.

Atsumu begins to hyper fixate on the tiny details. Like how Sakusa has small callouses that are rough against his, right at the base of his fingers—weightlifting callouses, probably. Or how his fingers are cold to touch but his palm is warm. How Sakusa doesn’t really put much energy into the hand hold, merely envelopes Atsumu’s hand with his.

It’s…weird. In a good way. And Atsumu prays to whatever god that’s out there watching him to prevent his body from breaking out into sweat, because clammy hands are inevitable but undesirable when holding hands. He’s sure Sakusa would absolutely hate that. 

But does he hate this?

“The truth isn’t as interesting as people think it is,” Sakusa says. He sighs. “My parents want to set me up with someone eventually. To form one of those joint family business-partnerships through marriage.”

Atsumu blinks. Huh. He hadn’t heard that before. In fact, he didn’t even know Sakusa’s family even _owned_ a business. “What kinda business?”

“Hotels.”

“ _Eh?_ ”

“Complexes where businessmen often stay when they travel to—”

“I know what a hotel is. I ain’t that stupid.”

Sakusa rubs the back of his neck. His pace slows, so much so that they’re practically not moving. “I agree with them that it’s a smart business move. They don’t want to sell because I think they like their job. But they want to grow, and they don’t have the extensive financial resources bigger-name chains have.”

No more than twenty seconds ago Sakusa stated, _The truth isn’t as interesting as people think it is_. Atsumu’s beginning to realize that Sakusa’s definitions may be quite different from his. “That makes sense.”

“I was planning on doing it. But Komori kept trying to talk me out of it. He’s the romantic kind of person. So he kept trying to sell marriage to me as some sort of grand statement of love.”

“That’s cuz that’s what marriage _is_ ,” Atsumu says in a _duh_ voice. Sakusa throws him a flat look and Atsumu can’t help but grin.

“For some people, maybe.” Sakusa shakes his head. He doesn’t look particularly somber or disappointed by this, nor does he seem bothered. “It doesn’t seem like a big deal to me. I’ve never met anyone I’ve wanted to marry, anyway.” _Prolly cuz yer only twenty_ , Atsumu wants to say, but he bites his tongue. “Komori told me to try dating.”

“Yer kiddin’.”

“No. I told him…why would I date around when I’m not interested in dating, or I don’t have anyone I want to date? He said that sometimes people need to go on dates to find out if they want to date the person, which seemed kind of backwards to me.” Atsumu stares. Sakusa doesn’t notice. “So he set me up on a date with someone but she didn’t interest me so when she texted me afterwards I ignored her, and Komori got mad at me.”

“Huh?” Atsumu tilts his head. “When was this?” Sakusa and his lack of texting etiquette is something Atsumu is painfully familiar with.

“End of last term.”

“And?”

Sakusa sighs again. He pushes his curls out of his face with his free hand, and Atsumu swallows at how stunning Sakusa looked bathed in moonlight. “And Komori convinced me that I should give things a week to decide if I’m interested in someone.”

“Oh.”

“And I don’t know. I’m not really sure how it happened. It just so happened that after the first time I dated someone for a week, someone else asked me out the next morning. I said no at first, but Komori yelled at me and said I was being rude. Not about rejecting, but about the way I rejected, apparently.” Sakusa wrinkles his nose, but Atsumu has the sense that Sakusa respects his cousin more than he lets on—if he listens to advice like that. “He thought I should try to date her for a week, too. I guess rumors kind of got out of hand because of that.”

“Yer tellin’ me.” Atsumu cracks a sly smile. The truth falls more in line with what he’s seen of Sakusa so far—aside from the initial cold front, he’s been polite, though a bit blunt. “So the reason why ya keep at this trend is because Komori toldja to, basically.”

Sakusa nods, lips pursed in a thin line. It’s amazing, sometimes, how two related people could be so different. “That’s one way to see it. He thinks I’m bound to run into one person who will make me tell my parents I want out of an arranged marriage.”

“But you don’t think so.”

He shrugs. Atsumu is a bit disappointed. Particularly in light of his newly minted crisis that swirls in his stomach. But there’s a thread of truth in Komori’s reasoning, one that Atsumu would agree with. Because he can’t imagine marrying anyone just for the sake of the family business. Or any reason other than love. 

Sakusa doesn’t offer direct words, as elusive as ever. Atsumu thinks about this more, thinks about how Sakusa-the-playboy is actually Sakusa-the-naive-boy, who thinks that marriage and dating should be a series of conditional transactions. “Does Mori-kun give ya advice on how to date, too,” Atsumu asks, “or didja come up with yer weird quirks on yer own?”

“Quirks?”

“Y’know. Like textin’ good mornin’ everyday.”

Sakusa’s pallor deepens into a blush, and Atsumu wants to take a picture to memorialize it forever. “Komori told me texting first thing in the morning is polite.”

Atsumu laughs, which only deepens the scowl etched across Sakusa’s features. “Yer a funny one, Omi Omi. I like that about ya.”

“You’d be the first,” Sakusa mutters. 

“So ya haven’t met someone to convince ya to pull out of this whole ordeal, huh?”

Sakusa shakes his head slowly.

“Hm…” Atsumu pauses. Sexuality isn’t any of his business if it’s not his, but he decides to toss the question out there. “Do you think…maybe…” Atsumu hesitates, recalling their first date together in MSBY Coffee, where Sakusa hadn’t said he wasn’t interested in men—he said he’s ambivalent towards _dating_. “Well, you’ve only dated women. Maybe yer just not into datin’ women.”

Sakusa blinks, then he frowns, then his eyes glaze over as he considers Atsumu’s words. “I…think I am?”

“Ya don’t really sound that sure of it.”

“I’ve had sex with women before.”

“Sex is different from love. Of all people, you should probably know about that.” Atsumu, for whatever reason, decides to thread his fingers with Sakusa’s, relishing in the sensation. Sakusa lets him, though, once again, his hold is passive, barely there.

“Huh.” Sakusa opens his mouth to say more, but words fail him.

“Ya don’t need to worry ‘bout that right now,” Atsumu continues, waving the topic off lazily. “I didn’t mean to catalyze any homosexual existentialist thoughts or nothin’ like that. And who knows. Maybe you’ll figure it out in a year from now, or a decade or now. But I think yer cousin’s onto somethin’.”

Atsumu becomes increasingly aware of the fact that his head continues to feel like it’s suspended in midair, and he pulls Sakusa to a stop, releasing their hands. He hunches over and puts his hand on his knees, trying to steady the alcohol-induced heart racing that refuses to slow down. “Wait. Gimme a second.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to throw up.” It’s impressive how quickly Sakusa’s voice can switch from confessional to disgust. “Please throw up in the trash can if you have to.”

“I’m not—shut yer trap. I ain’t gonna throw up. I just need…” Atsumu closes his eyes and attempts to collect the fragments of his consciousness. Maybe shotgunning that beer wasn’t a good idea. It’s still spinning in his stomach and the gas makes him feel like he has to burp, but in a gross way. “What time is it?”

Sakusa pulls out his phone, and Atsumu is once again struck by how good-looking he is. It’s so unfair. And it’s unfair how it makes him feel even more nauseous. “Around one?”

“Not bad, Omi-kun. Ya managed to stay out later—” Atsumu hiccups. “—than I expected ya to.”

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Am not. I got this.”

“You do not ‘got’ this.” Sakusa whips his head around before settling on a nearby garbage bin. “Miya, there’s—”

“I ain’t gonna throw up, alright? So you can stop yer squirmin’.” Atsumu squints up from his position. “’S unfair how yer not even kind of drunk.” He neglects to add that Atsumu hadn’t even been planning on drinking that much, so Sakusa could have fun.

“I stopped drinking after we left your place.”

“So I’m the idiot.”

“Yeah.” Is Atsumu imagining things, or is Sakusa smiling down at him? No, maybe it’s a smirk. Maybe it’s both. Who knows? Atsumu’s drunk.

 _Ugh_.

Atsumu takes another measured breath in, holds it there, then releases it. He visualizes the alcohol leaving his brain and sobering him up. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t know why he even bothers. This is stupid. He’s stupid. Sakusa’s stupid, for dating around like that and not even self-reflecting about how, maybe, he’s just been looking for love in the wrong places.

A gentle hand on his elbow. Atsumu’s eyes immediately zoom in on Sakusa’s fingertips. He withdraws them quickly, like he’s about to get bitten, but the damage has been done: a bite the size of Sakusa Kiyoomi has been taken out of his chest. “Omi-kun?”

Sakusa gently ushers him to the curb, where Atsumu begrudgingly sits down onto. His hands don’t make contact again. An echo of the sensation is seared into Atsumu’s mind. “You look like you need to sit down. Sit.”

“I ain’t a dog—”

“Just sit down, Miya. Before I kick your feet out from under you.”

“That’s kinda sexy.” Atsumu breathes a laugh as he collapses on his ass on the cold, hard cement. It’s not unusual for him to end the night sitting on his ass somewhere, or lying somewhere where he shouldn’t be. It feels nice. “Ah. Sittin’ wasn’t such a bad idea. Yer a smart one, Omi Omi.”

“For some reason, when you say things like that, you don’t sound very sincere.” Sakusa shuffles to the side a bit before tentatively setting at the very edge of the curb, knees pulled to his chest. He looks smaller this way, in the empty residential streets of Tokyo. Atsumu stretches out his legs and hangs his head to avoid the next wave of nausea and to prevent himself from staring too hard at the boy next to him.

“You’ll wind up findin’ whatever makes ya happy. Mori-kun could be wrong. Maybe yer just not the type for love.”

A beat of silence. “Yeah. And maybe not.”

“Maybe not.” Atsumu yawns, tongue parched and nasty and wanting nothing more than a gallon of water and a very thorough teeth-brushing. He can already sense his hangover that will come to visit him later, and he wants nothing more than to climb into bed and stay there until the memories of sitting drunk on the sidewalk are only that—memories. 

When he looks over at Sakusa, who’s resting his chin on his knees, eyes forward but unfocused, he decides likes Sakusa like this: quiet and un-intimidating and thoughtful. It’s becoming more and more clear that his earlier interactions—frigid and sharp—weren’t supposed to be mean, like Atsumu thought they were. 

“Miya.”

“Hm?” Atsumu leans back on his arms, already beginning to feel better. If he has to fall asleep on the sidewalk to sober up before going home, that’s fine, too. He doesn’t think he’ll be getting up any time soon. Sakusa makes no further sound, or maybe Atsumu’s missed it, so he picks his head up just in time to find Sakusa closer to him than he would’ve possibly expected.

Like, closer than considered appropriate.

Like, if Atsumu just shifted his face even the slightest bit forward, his lips would be pressed flush against Sakusa’s.

He doesn’t do that, though, because Atsumu is stupid, and he acts on impulse. It manifests itself in the most stupid, impulsive act: he yelps. Osamu’s text message flashes through his brain. _Yer SO not slick_.

Sakusa jerks back, eyes so wide that Atsumu can see the white surrounding his irises, and within seconds, Sakusa is scrambling away and standing up—as if the thought of what could’ve potentially just transpired is so disgusting that he can’t stand being within a six foot radius of Atsumu.

“Omi—”

“Sorry,” Sakusa blurts, and before Atsumu can say _It’s okay_ or _Please continue_ , Sakusa stuffs his hands in his pockets, blushing furiously, and he begins backing away, down the street in the same way they came. “I think I—it’s late. I’m going to walk home now. Enjoy the party.”

“Wait—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t—you can’t—sorry.” Without so much as a glance in Atsumu’s direction, he turns around and walks fast down the street, practically jogging, and Atsumu opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

Well. That was unexpected. _What just happened?_ Atsumu stares after Sakusa’s retreating back, once again, except this time it’s not like the other times when Sakusa leaves first. Despite his muddled brain, Atsumu has the coherency to realize that it runs deeper than that. It doesn’t occur to him to stop him, nor does it occur to him to be pissed. 

Instead, Atsumu sits, mouth slightly agape, as the dawning realization comes crashing down all at once.

 _I was about to kiss Sakusa_.

Holy fucking shit. _Omi was about to kiss me_.

And, of course, because rude awakenings come in three, Atsumu realizes that he has to figure out how, in his drunken stupor, he’s going to get home—alone.

* * *

p.m.

* * *

A hangover greets him the next morning—well, technically, the next afternoon—and about a million thoughts coursing through his brain. There are questions, of course, and there are hypotheticals, but none of them overshadow the fact that Atsumu is sort of upset. Actually, more than sort of—he’s pissed. He woke up with dirt stuck on his ass, last night’s sweat coating his skin, and the first thought he thinks is: Sakusa really fucking left him drunk and alone on the curb of a residential street.

Talk about inconsiderate.

He doesn’t remember much after that. His call log tells him that he had a phone call with Osamu that lasted precisely seven minutes and nineteen seconds. Atsumu presumes that he immediately went home at some point during the night, although he’s not sure when, but the ache in his eyes and the fatigue threaded through his body hints that he stayed up later than he probably should’ve.

Atsumu’s phone also tells him that, at around two in the morning, he sent one incoherent text message.

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> that waas a fykin RUDe

If he weren’t so pissed about Sakusa literally leaving him behind, Atsumu might be embarrassed about sending it. 

After cursing himself for being a dumbass and essentially rebuffing Sakusa’s advances—if that’s what they even were—Atsumu chugs two full glasses of water and brushes his teeth, hitting the shower to wash off the events of last night and his subsequent emotions. He ignores Osamu’s texts asking how hungover he is, and he lounges on the couch mindlessly scrolling through channels. Atsumu waits for acknowledgement of his drunken text message, for an apology, or for anything to give any small indication that Sakusa gives a shit.

He waits for the standard ‘Good morning, Miya’ message that he’s been so accustomed to receiving, that he expects will show up at the oddest hours, even if it’s no longer the morning.

It never comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there ya have it. In the original manga, the guy has emotional baggage, which is why he dates around. While that's a totally valid reason why people might have commitment issues, I wanted to flip the trope of "Play Boy Looking For The Right Person To Tame Them." Because ew. I hate that trope. 
> 
> Anyway. Can't believe this is the second to last chapter. And since this chapter was only 4k I don't think I'm going to cross the 40k word mark BLESS. 
> 
> I've already started my SakuAtsu office AU send help.


	7. sunday

a.m. 

* * *

**9:00am**

* * *

Atsumu decides to look for _something_ —a listening ear, advice, a kick to the ass—where he always finds one: Osamu.

But Osamu isn’t in an empathetic mood today. He ignores Atsumu’s first text, leaves the second on read, and dodges the first four calls Atsumu sends his way. It frustrates Atsumu to no end, but he doesn’t know who else he trusts enough to share the newest developments with, so he continues to bother his brother until Osamu knocks on his bedroom door.

“Wadaya want, jackass?” Osamu wears an oversized hoodie—probably that of his boyfriend’s—and his hair sticks up in weird spaces. Atsumu makes a pointed effort not to notice the not-so-subtle hickeys decorating his neck. “I haul my ass all the way here for ya, so ya better have a good explanation.”

“Says the guy who I had to force out the past couple nights.”

“Ya look like shit.” Osamu pushes past Atsumu and collapses on his bed, heaving a sigh before propping himself up on his elbows. Atsumu sits at his desk and buries his face in his hands.

“Didja see my texts?”

“Course I saw ‘em. Yer soundin’ pretty unhinged, ya know.”

“Shut yer trap.” Atsumu doesn’t even have to energy to deny it. He spent all day yesterday moping around for a text that never came, nursing his hangover and the eruption of anxiety that bundled itself into his stomach and permeateed every thought that crossed his mind.

“Sakusa-un still hasn’t reached out to ya yet?” Osamu asks.

“No.”

“Not even his weirdo good mornin’ text?”

“No.”

“Hm.” Osamu rubs at his neck. As much of a pain in the ass as he is—and as much as Osamu purposely pushes his buttons—Atsumu knows that he’s the only person who will take him half as seriously as Atsumu takes himself. “Can’t ya just go over to his apartment?”

Atsumu shakes his head. “I dunno where he lives.”

“How do ya not know where he lives?”

“I’ve never been over.”

“Yer datin’ him and ya never been over to his apartment?”

“Will you _shut up_? I get it; the whole thing is fuckin’ weird. But—” Atsumu groans in frustration. He still hasn’t brushed his teeth and his soul feels like it’s crumbling to pieces. “Can we focus on this shit? Like the fact that he left me drunk on the sidewalk? What the fuck do I say to that?”

“Oh yeah.” Osamu nods. His large eyes crinkle in slight irritation. “That’s not cool at all. Even though I woulda left yer ass on the curb, too.”

“Do ya ever say anythin’ decent in yer life, ya good-for-nothin’—”

“Relax. I’m tryna getcha to relax.” Osamu rolls his eyes, but the soft manner in which he studies Atsumu betrays his sarcastic tone. “You should call him out on it. If ya want, I can kick his ass, too.”

“Does it even matter at this point, though?” Atsumu pouts and leans back in his chair. “It’s not like this is even gonna last past today. Maybe I should just ignore it until he inevitably dumps me.”

Osamu pauses. He has a funny look on his face, the same he gets whenever he analyzes the shit out of something and Atsumu becomes increasingly aware that, this time, _he’s_ that something. “Tsumu,” he says, “do ya remember callin’ me last night?”

“I already toldja, I don’t—”

“You don’t remember callin’ me at all? Or anything about what we talked about?”

“No.”

Osamu sighs. He picks at the loose threads on the edges of Atsumu’s comforter and avoids eye contact with his brother. “Well…you may have told me a thing or two about somethin’ that happened.”

“Ya mean the part where he almost kissed me?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me.” Atsumu groans again, and if he had the power two, he’d definitely take back those thirty seconds between him looking up at Sakusa and Sakusa backing away. “Most embarrassing moment of my life. Why the fuck was I even _born_?”

Osamu snorts. “Beats me.”

“Shut yer trap.”

“So he tried to kiss you. So he left you on the sidewalk, drunk and alone. So what? Clearly ya like him, Tsumu— _don’t give me that fuckin’ look_ —ya like him, and ya don’t know what to do about it. I already toldja on Friday night and I’ll tell ya again: get him in a quiet place and hash it out.”

“I don’t _want_ to,” Atsumu snaps, because as much as he’s having these definitely-not-platonic feelings for Sakusa, he’s also got these pissed-as-hell feelings, too. Shouldn’t Sakusa reach out to him first, anyway? Isn’t that common courtesy?

“Judgin’ my the stuff ya told me—”

“What stuff?”

“The stuff about Sakusa and arranged marriages and constant datin’.”

“Fuckin’ hell—I toldja about all that?”

“Much to my displeasure. Yeah.” Osamu rolls his eyes. “I was tryna calm ya down, don’t ya remember? But ya kept goin’ on and on and next thing I knew you hung up the phone. I had to track yer location to make sure ya got him safely.”

“Fuck.”

“Based on what ya told me, Tsumu, it doesn’t look like Sakusa knows jack shit about datin’ or having feelings or whatever.”

Atsumu snorts. This, at least, he and Osamu can agree on. The way Sakusa had spoken about marriage and relationships seemed so…clinical, and completely antithetical to what Atsumu thinks they should be. His cheeks warm at the fact that he told Osamu _all of it_ , without even meaning to. Is he even allowed to do that? It’s not even his business—it’s Sakusa’s. “You could say that again.”

“I’ll bet twenty onigiris that he’s sittin’ around and mopin’ in his room same as you are, bein’ all angsty and shit about how yer Friday night went.”

“I’m not bein’—”

“Cut the crap, Tsumu. Have ya even left the apartment since ya got back from the party?”

Atsumu opens his mouth. No. He hasn’t. He’s been too busy having a _crisis_ , for crying out loud.

“Damn. You and Sakusa-kun really _are_ made for each other, ya know that? Both totally lame and with the emotional capacity of a string bean.”

“I don’t have the emotional capacity of a string bean!”

“Actually, yer right. Yer prolly closer to peas instead.”

“Hey!”

Osamu stands up and stretches reaching forward to grab at Atsumu’s head. Atsumu dodges it, barely, but not before Osamu manages to raps a few knuckles against his temple. “Yer overthinkin’ things again, dumbass. Just text him and ask him if he has time to talk. Whatever ya wind up doin’, follow yer heart, or yer dick, or whatever.”

“You are _so_ crass.”

“That’s grand, comin’ from _you_.” Osamu wanders out of Atsumu’s bedroom, pulling out his phone—no doubt to text their friends and make fun of how incompetent Atsumu is at making life decisions. “Don’t overthink things, Tsumu. ’S not a good look for a plebeian like ya.”

Atsumu seethes in his chair, except it’s not really seething, because he knows, deep down, that Osamu is right. What he’d wanted, of course, was for Osamu to comfort him about his dilemma, to tell him he’s in the right, to tell him that Sakusa is the one that should reach out first, and Atsumu should just wait until he does.

But knowing Sakusa, he won’t, and it’s up to Atsumu, once again, to grab the handle on things.

> **To** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> hey

Atsumu bites the inside of his cheek. He begins typing a follow up question, but deletes it after realizing that, _thanks for leaving me in the middle of the street_ , can come across as extremely passive aggressive. Maybe it warrants passive aggression, but like Osamu said—maybe Sakusa really, genuinely doesn’t know better.

Right as Atsumu begins re-typing another text, Sakusa responds.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Good morning, Miya.

Should Atsumu throw his phone out the window? Atsumu wants to throw his phone out the window.

> **From** : Sakusa Kiyoomi
> 
> Sorry about last night.

What, exactly, is Sakusa sorry for? For leaving Atsumu stranded in the middle of the big-bad streets of residential Tokyo? For oversharing too much about his not-so-tragic backstory? For trying to make a move on Atsumu?

Atsumu swallows. It’s so ambiguous and it only ignites the existing nerves under his skin. Things should be as easy as typing a confession and just pressing send, but Atsumu has never been one to take the easy route.

And so, instead, Atsumu—after drafting about sixteen different responses—turns off his phone, and distracts himself.

* * *

**10:00am**

* * *

And, if Atsumu thinks about it more, he can totally forgive Sakusa for leaving him behind if Sakusa apologizes. Which he did, sort of, through a text message, but Atsumu wants Sakusa to apologize to his _face_. Because then at least that’ll give Atsumu the chance to reject his apology to his face. Or kiss his face. Or whatever.

* * *

p.m. 

* * *

**12:00pm**

* * *

Also, it’s totally unfair that Sakusa didn’t even mention the whole not-texting-good-morning. Or, maybe, the apology was because he hadn’t sent ‘Good morning’ yesterday. And all the other stuff wasn’t included in the apology.

Atsumu chews angrily on his cereal and types into his phone. 

_what were u apologizing for?_

_i don’t want to accept ur apology_

_say it to my face u asshat_

Each one is deleted. No new ones are drafted. No new ones come into his inbox, either.

* * *

**3:00pm**

* * *

The thing about dating Sakusa is—well, Sakusa has already said multiple times that he’s not interested in dating. Atsumu can’t just forget about that. The agreement in their ‘relationship’ had been clear from the get go: it was for seven days. No more, no less, no frills.

Sure, there’s that minor complication that maybe Sakusa has some other sexuality-related stuff to figure out, but his entire perspective on dating and marriage and relationships spell it out simply to Atsumu: Sakusa does not and will not date. Full stop.

But Atsumu’s brain stubbornly continues to work through hypotheticals. The _what ifs_ and the _but maybe_ scenarios, the ones that scream disappointment and wreck havoc on any sense of clarity that Atsumu craves. Sakusa almost kissing him doesn’t guarantee that he wants to _date_ him, for crying out loud. It probably says more about Sakusa’s drunk and confused state of mind than it does about his genuine feelings.

Atsumu knows, time and time again, that when he gets like this, his dreamer-brain sets him up for disappointment once again.

 _You and I both know yer gonna get yer heart broken_ , Osamu had warned him, no more than three days ago. And of course he was right. Of course he was.

But there’s still the smallest part of Atsumu that wants him to be wrong.

He decides that he’s going to get a final answer, once and for all.

After all, he’s got nothing to lose.

* * *

**6:00pm**

* * *

Except, maybe, losing his mind. Because right now, Atsumu is losing his fucking mind, trying to put his body at ease, walking from the bathroom to the kitchen to the dining room to the kitchen to the living room and back to the kitchen again. It’s six in the evening, no word from Sakusa, and Atsumu hasn’t reached out, either. _Let’s talk_ sounds too ominous, and _let’s talk!_ sounds too casual. 

“Yer overthinkin’ things,” Osamu’s voice calls out over the crackle of the pan sizzling with oil.

“I didn’t say nothin’, ya scrub.”

“No, but yer pacing back and forth. It’s exhausting just watchin’ ya.”

Atsumu storms back into his bedroom. It feels too claustrophobic, so he goes back to the living room and turns on the television.

“Yer weird,” Osamu observes, but Atsumu ignores him. He pulls out his phone again. He stares at the _No new messages_ icon. 

He types, _can I come over?_

Then he types, _can u come over?_

Atsumu all but screams as he throws his phone against the wall. Osamu watches silently as Atsumu stuffs his face into the couch cushions and wishes he would be consumed with them.

Atsumu hears Osamu's footsteps and, moments later, something is plopped on his back.

“Yer welcome for buyin’ ya that shock-absorbing case for Christmas,” Osamu says. “Yer really gettin’ yer money’s worth, ain’t ya?”

Atsumu yells incoherently into the cushions again, cursing out Osamu and Sakusa and, above all else, himself.

* * *

**8:00pm**

* * *

Plus, when Atsumu thinks back to the past weeks, and the tiny paradigm shifts in his perspective of Sakusa, he knows for a fact that he’s not delusional for thinking that they weren’t mutual. Because they _are_ —why else would Sakusa smile like that around him? Why else would he hold his hand? Why else would he try to kiss him?

* * *

**10:00pm**

* * *

Atsumu has decided upon his big grand gesture that’s actually neither big nor grand, but it does require a tiniest bit of planning ahead. Although, in Atsumu’s world, “planning ahead” means little more than working two hours in advance of said plan. 

He pulls out his laptop and searches for _Komori Motoya_ in the student directory. Komori's smiling face shows up, along with his student email address. Atsumu cannot, for the life of him, remember the last time he sent an email to anyone other than a professor when he scrambled to submit his assignments on time.

 _Hey, Komori-kun_ , he types. _Realize this might be kind of weird, but would you be able to send me Sakusa’s address?_

He types, _Sincerely, Atsumu_ , before realizing that sounds weird. But _Best, Atsumu_ , sounds weird, too. 

He settles for, _Thanks, Atsumu_. He considers typing in parentheses, ‘Sakusa’s boyfriend’, but as Atsumu glances over at the clock, he realizes that, technically, he only has an hour and forty-two minutes left of calling himself Sakusa’s boyfriend. Because in an hour and forty-two minutes, it’ll be Monday, and this fever dream will be over.

Atsumu hits send before re-thinking it. He receives a short response three minutes later.

 _Hey, Atsumu-kun! Here’s Kiyoomi’s apartment complex. He’s in 7E_.

“Yer not still tryin’ to choke yerself with the couch, are ya?” Osamu’s head pops in on the door. “I’m headin’ over to Kuroo’s tonight.”

“This late?”

“Skippin’ work tomorrow. We gotta finish crammin’ for our econ exam. So I won’t be able to revive ya if ya stop breathin’.”

“Fuck off, Samu.” Atsumu’s eyes never leave his laptop screens he types a quick reply to Komori’s email.

He feels Osamu’s eyes still on him, and typically this would be enough to bother him, but Atsumu’s already got tunnel vision about how much _other_ things bother him right now. 

“Good luck, Tsumu,” Osamu hollers, already out the door, and as much of a pain in the ass as he is, Atsumu knows that he means it.

* * *

**11:00pm**

* * *

Atsumu takes a shower. He puts on a clean pair of jeans and a button down that is used strictly during interviews. There’s a meager attempt at styling his hair, but it’s too long and Atsumu is long overdue for a keratin treatment to revive the dehydrated, bleached strands. Atsumu curses himself as he blow-dries his hair and does his best to comb it to the side, but it fluffs up all the same.

He puts on a bit of cologne—an old gift from Osamu that’s hardly been used—and tugs on his socks. He has his phone and nothing much else, though Atsumu would be lying if he said he didn’t think about swinging by the store to purchase flowers first.

It’s stupid, but Atsumu has never been someone who acted smartly, so he decides this is the best he can do. 

* * *

**11:30pm**

* * *

Sakusa’s apartment is a five minute walk away. If he wants to make his not-so-grand gesture seem at least a little bit grand, Atsumu has to time this right. There’s absolutely the possibility that Sakusa will slam the door in his face, or that Sakusa won’t answer the door at all, but at least Atsumu will get an answer either way.

* * *

**11:45pm**

* * *

Atsumu sends one last panicked text message to his brother.

> **To** : Miya Osamu
> 
> I AM PANICKING
> 
> **From** : Miya Osamu
> 
> i am studying. bye
> 
> ps stfu ur fine

He’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

* * *

**11:50pm**

* * *

Everything is not fine.

* * *

**11:55pm**

* * *

Atsumu takes a deep breath. He slips his shoes on and double checks one last time that his phone and keys are both in his pockets. 

He can do this. He can totally do this. He’s about to put his feelings on the line for a guy who has most likely never had a real feeling in his life. Atsumu has run through what he’s going to say more times than he can count, and still, the thought of asking Sakusa to continue to date him terrifies him. 

It’s as unfamiliar as it had been the first time. Atsumu snorts at the memory, slouched over a bench, slightly out of his mind from lack of sleep. He recalls feeling irrationally annoyed at Sakusa, and with fondness, he thinks about how the sharp annoyance gradually wattled away over the past week.

 _Y’know, even if this doesn’t work out_ , Atsumu muses as he tugs open his door, _at least this will be an interestin’ story to tell people_.

The story of how Miya Atsumu foolishly walked himself into a relationship he was inevitably going to get his heart broken in. Sounds tragic, but really, it’s stupid. Atsumu’s stupid.

Or maybe not.

Because as Atsumu flings his apartment door open, ready to charge straight into a metaphorical battlefield of thoughts and emotions, he finds himself face-to-face with the very person he is trying to see.

“Omi-kun?”

Sakusa’s eyes widen. His fist is raised, as if he were about to knock on the door. He looks like he’s wearing his pajamas, a tattered pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt with a furret Pokemon on it.

Atsumu rubs at his eyes. Has he lost it? He’s probably lost it. After spending the entire day wound up over his agony, he’s imagining Sakusa Kiyoomi on his doorstep, wearing a t-shirt that looks as juvenile and ridiculous as it sounds.

But no, Sakusa is very much real and standing in front of him and saying, “Miya.”

“What’re ya doin’ here?” Atsumu blurts. His mind, for some reason, decides to fixate on the house slippers that Sakusa wears on his feet. He’s not wearing a mask, either, which is unusual. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Sakusa purses his lips before nervously glancing down the empty hall. “I don’t mean to be interrupting.”

“No, I—sort of. I was goin’ to go see ya.” Atsumu blushes furiously. There’s no need to be embarrassed about this, but seeing Sakusa’s shocked expression is enough to make him squirm. “Mori-kun gave me yer address.”

“I keep telling him not to share my contact info with people,” Sakusa mutters, “but I guess that’s okay. Can I come in?”

“Um. Sure. Yeah. Yes.” Atsumu clears his throat and steps out of the doorway. “Come right in.”

Sakusa shuffles into Atsumu’s apartment and Atsumu closes the door behind him. He moves to remove his shoes and, as he bends over to untie his sneakers, he notices his hands are trembling. Sakusa seats himself on Atsumu’s couch—the same site as Atsumu’s screaming episode—and looks expectantly at Atsumu.

“Ya look like ya just got out of bed.” Atsumu sits on the opposite side of the couch. Somehow, his brain has the capacity to think to itself: _hah, two guys chillin’ on the couch, six feet apart cuz they ain’t gay._

“I basically did.”

“Oh.” A beat of awkward silence. “What’s up?”

Sakusa clears his throat. It’s strangely domestic, see him like this, and a wave of fondness, so sweet that Atsumu feels gross from it, washes over him. “I wanted to apologize. To you. About yesterday.” He pointedly avoids eye contact. “Um, about leaving you on the curb.”

“Kinda wasn’t cool, man,” Atsumu says. “I coulda died.”

“That’s what Komori said,” Sakusa mutters. He takes a deep breath. “So. I’m sorry. For leaving you alone. I panicked.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “Why were ya panicking, Omi Omi?”

“I wanted to apologize for that, too.”

“For panicking?”

“For—for why I panicked.” Any frustration Atsumu has harbored over the past twenty-four hours subsequently dissolves, because Sakusa has an incredibly pained expression on his face that tells Atsumu that Sakusa must be incredibly, emotionally constipated. Atsumu wants to reach forward and smooth the creases between his brows, to dig his fingers gently into the slope of his shoulders and push them away from his ears. 

“Okay,” Atsumu says. “And why was that?”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. By coming onto you. Especially because you were drunk.” Sakusa swallows, and Atsumu once again traces the movement down his throat. “That was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why was it inappropriate?”

Sakusa pinches his eyes shut. “Now you’re just making fun of me, Miya.”

“No, I’m not! I swear I’m not.” Atsumu almost leans forward to touch his wrist, but he restrains himself. “I’m not makin’ fun of ya, Omi-kun. I wanna know why ya think makin’ a move on me was inappropriate, that’s all.”

“You know why. You screeched when I—”

“It wasn’t a screech!”

“It was definitely a screech.” A flash of a smile dances at the corner of his lips. “A high-pitched one, too.”

“I _yelped_ , okay? A yelp.”

The smile drops from Sakusa’s face and immediately, Atsumu wants to take it back. With Sakusa, he’s learned, there’s a natural ebb and flow of his vulnerability, and right now, he pulls back. Atsumu wishes he could coax him out, gentle and easy. “It made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

Atsumu tilts his head. “Why didja think it made me uncomfortable?”

“Because you scree—yelped?”

“I yelped cuz it was unexpected, not because it was uncomfortable.” Even as Atsumu explains himself, he wants to go back in time and kick his drunken ass for having that response. If he’d just let Sakusa kiss him, no yelps or screeches, he wouldn’t be caught in this predicament right now.

“It sounded like an uncomfortable yelp.”

“I know my yelps, Omi-kun.” Atsumu brings his gaze to Sakusa’s, and he watches Sakusa’s eyes widen a little at the directness. Something ignites in his belly, warm and hungry. “I know when I’m uncomfortable, and it ain’t with ya.”

Sakusa licks his lips, and Atsumu nearly combusts.

“I’m sorry anyway. And…for ignoring you. I wanted to say something today but I had a lot on my mind. That’s why it’s taken me so long to finally show up here.” Sakusa laughs a little, but it’s humorless, and the sharpest points of his cheeks tinge pink. “I wanted to talk to you after I figured out what I was thinking.”

It seems fair, considering the amount of introspection and internalized agony Atsumu has suffered today. “Me too. I wanted to text ya and meet up, but I wanted to wait until—”

“Wait.” Sakusa holds up a hand, and the rambling abruptly stops from Atsumu’s mouth. “I have something important to say, so please let me finish, and then I’ll let you go.”

Atsumu digs his nails into his palms. “Okay.”

Sakusa sits in silence, looking down at his feet. Atsumu catches the way there’s a tiny tear at the hem of his shirt, and how Sakusa’s pants must be old given the faded print. He decides he likes Sakusa like this, and if he had it his way, he’d see it first thing when he wakes up, and last thing before he goes to sleep.

But he’s getting ahead of himself.

“I wanted to ask you out,” Sakusa says so soft that it’s almost a whisper. His voice tapers at the end that Atsumu’s brain short-circuits, because he’s certain he’s heard wrong.

“Huh?”

“Komori told me I should give it a week to know if I wanna date people. But I want more than a week with you, Miya.”

This isn’t how the night was supposed to go. Atsumu was supposed to declare his affection towards Sakusa, and he was supposed to ask him out for another week— _not_ the other way around.

“I know when you asked me out, it was just for a joke, originally. But I was kind of getting tired of the whole thing, and I thought it might be a nice break from—from having to put up with more pointless relationships.” Sakusa shifts in his seat and brings his knees to his chest, looking impossibly small. “I didn’t expect that I’d actually enjoy hanging out with you.”

“That’s—a bit of a—” Atsumu chokes on his words, but somehow manages to get out, “—backhanded compliment.”

“But it’s true. I thought you’d be another week of silly dates and being polite. But then I realized I didn’t want the week to end.”

All words and thoughts and the breath nestled in Atsumu’s chest escape him. 

“Please date me for another week,” Sakusa says quietly. “Maybe even more.”

Atsumu doesn’t really know what to say, so he settles on what he does best: he acts on impulse. He inches over on the couch. Panic flashes over Sakusa’s face—or maybe it’s anticipation—and Atsumu puts his face so close that they’re nose-to-nose.

He hasn’t been this emotionally wrecked by the simple eye contact, nor has he been this invested in trying to get to know someone. “Omi-kun,” Atsumu says, and he’s surprised his voice still works at this point. “Can I kiss ya? I promise I won’t yelp this time around.”

Sakusa stiffens a bit, but he nods, careful and slow, and completely unlike the demanding rate at which Atsumu’s chest tightens with every beat.

Atsumu tilts his head and catches Sakusa’s mouth with his, slowly easing away Sakusa’s arms from his legs, pressing his legs down so that he has full access to his torso. It turns out, for all the shyness and awkward interactions Sakusa exudes, kissing is natural to him. His lips are soft and taste like toothpaste, and Atsumu presses into it more. It’s everything he ever wanted, more than he ever wanted, and yet, somehow, it’s not enough.

“I’ll treat ya nice this next week,” Atsumu says as he breaks away. Sakusa doesn’t resist, and Atsumu feels like he’s going to die again, but for good reasons only. “And maybe even the week after.”

Sakusa raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

“Ask me again next Sunday.”

“Or you can ask me.”

“I’ll ask ya everyday, if ya want.” Atsumu decides that sitting up isn’t good enough for him, and Sakusa grunts as Atsumu yanks at him so that he’s lying horizontal on the couch, Sakusa on top of him.

“Miya—”

“Ya can call me Atsumu, y’know,” Atsumu says. He drags his fingers through Sakusa’s impossibly soft hair and curls his hand around the nape of his neck. He decides he likes Sakusa like this, too, with lips that are too pink and with an expression that is too soft, hovering above his body with one thigh slotted between his.

Sakusa rolls his eyes and props himself up with his arms. “I’ll call you by your name when you stop calling me stupid nicknames.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“Then I guess the name ‘Atsumu’ will never pass from my lips.”

“But it just did.”

Sakusa opens his mouth to protest, but Atsumu pulls him down for another searing kiss. As forward as he might be, right now, Sakusa must have been going easy on him with this second kiss, because it doesn’t take long for his tongue to be dragging along Atsumu’s mouth and for his hands to go wandering, grabbing at Atsumu’s hips and running across his shoulders.

Atsumu decides that kissing Sakusa drunk would’ve been a mistake—because no drunk kiss could have done justice to what Sakusa’s capable of.

“Omi,” Atsumu says, completely from reflex, but it’s more of a plea than anything. His voice is embarrassingly wound up and his breath catches when Sakusa’s hands tread dangerously to his thighs. It really has been too long since the last time anyone even attempted to map out that territory. And it’s really doing things to him, to his brain and his body, and it’s embarrassing how unhinged he sounds when he chokes out, “Stay the night.”

“Why do you think I’m in my pajamas?” Sakusa’s lips brush against Atsumu’s ears, and Atsumu shivers.

“Don’t ya go growin’ a sense of humor on me, Omi Omi.”

“Don’t you go growing a sense of dignity on me, Atsumu.”

“I never had dignity to start with.” Atsumu shoves Sakusa off, grabs his hand, and intertwines their fingers together. He leads the way towards his room, slow enough that Sakusa has time to back out of this, and slow enough that the anticipation deepens when Sakusa follows without hesitation. “Dignity is overrated, anyway.”

Under the warm lights of Atsumu’s apartment, Sakusa’s eyes shine. Atsumu sees him as he is, not like the mythical being the seven days lore has made him out to be, and he thinks that, yeah, he could seriously fall for this guy. Maybe not in a week, or even in two, but definitely with enough time.

“I don’t think you realize how undignified I can get.”

Atsumu’s throat runs dry. 

He locks the door behind them and turns off the light.

“So why don’t ya show me?”

* * *

After, when Atsumu is exhausted, his body is wrecked, and he’s crammed in between the wall and Sakusa’s admittedly too-large body for Atsumu’s too-small bed, Atsumu drifts to sleep with Sakusa snoring beside him, excited for the day to come, and the days that follow.

Monday has never looked any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anddd that's a wrap! I'm shocked that I churned out this fic relatively quickly, but I hope this last chapter closes out a twist on the 7 days fic that feels new and fun and also heartfelt. I had a lot of fun writing Atsumu the gay disaster and Sakusa the awkward gay, so I hope you liked reading about them.
> 
> In other news, I started another multichap fic (AH) [not suitable for work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28233012/chapters/69184251u), my SakuAtsu slowburn rival-coworkers office AU. Check it out if you're interested :)
> 
> Till next time, my friends!

**Author's Note:**

> fyi there's another [7 days fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26457988/chapters/64467670) that a fellow sakuatsu stan wrote - except the roles are swapped. check it out!


End file.
